


Break Up with Your Girlfriend

by MFLuder



Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics)
Genre: American Politics, Break Up, F/M, Flirting, Homophobic Language, Lack of Communication, M/M, Minor Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Nolanverse canon, Police Officer Dick Grayson, Politics, Post-Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Post-Justice League (2017), Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Supergirl (TV) canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, past Bruce Wayne/Harvey Dent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-04-07 00:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MFLuder/pseuds/MFLuder
Summary: Clark's been alive for a few months and is still engaged to Lois when out of nowhere, "Brucie" Wayne starts flirting with him at a party.Bruceinsists its just a cover for their current case - a political scandal that could shake democratic norms in two cities - but Clark is suddenly juggling two sets of feelings and the sense that maybe it's more than cover for Bruce, too.New friends are made, old friends become enemies, secrets are revealed, and in the midst of all these feelings, one question remains: who will become mayor of Gotham?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FIC IS FINISHED. I am simply posting chapter-by-chapter based on beta and editing time. I'm planning on a posting schedule of 2x a week until the story is complete. Further tags will be added as the story goes along, although at no point will the warnings or rating change.
> 
> This fic was first prompted by Ariana Grande's _Break Up with Your Girlfriend_ and was meant to be some silly little Brucie flirting with Clark fic and then it turned into a monstrosity with an A, B, _and_ C plot and only one of the subplots was strictly romance. Those of you who follow me on tumblr have probably seen at least one post bemoaning why this thing thought it could be this long.
> 
> I’m futzing with the timeline a bit to match some political events of 2017. Instead of JL events happening in November 2017 when the movie was released, I’m envisioning BVS in early 2016 and JL in early 2017 so that by the start of this fic, end of July beginning of August 2017, Clark has already been alive for somewhere between 3 and 4 months.
> 
> Thank you to [everush](https://everush.tumblr.com) for all the beta help and being a sounding board!

Clark tugs at the tie around his neck in an attempt to invoke breath he doesn’t truly need. If he were a mere human, Clark figures he’d have sweat through his undershirt by now. Perry has sent him to another one of these social media celeb events; Clark swears it is as punishment for ‘being dead’ for the better part of a year. A believed story of amnesia caused by trying to get the scoop of the century wasn’t enough to make Perry kind when a reporter came back from an unauthorized sabbatical. Since he’s been back, he’s been assigned to five such events in the greater Gotham-Metropolis area. 

This one seemed to be a higher-class shindig – if any party involving the Jenners and Instagram models could be called high class – as it mixed not only reality TV stars Clark only knew from the posters around the room and his fellow reporters, but wealthy tech giants, actual Hollywood stars, and local city politicians.

He really should re-look at his invitation to find out what the event is even called.

Clark’s intrigued by the strange mix of people around him. In one corner he sees Harvey Dent, Gotham’s District Attorney, his scars blended out with the use of exceedingly good makeup, speaking to a few beautiful women and male celebs. Clark notes the man fidgeting with a coin, but aside from that, he seems to have recovered well from his accident five years ago – it had been horrid from what he’s heard.

In another corner, this one the curve of a glass balcony above, Clark sees Lena Luthor – dark hair pulled tight in a ponytail and wearing four-inch heels – speaking with Morgan Edge, a man he knows little about, but his gut says is bad news. He is going to have to keep an eye on that pair. So far, LexCorp has flourished under Lena’s leadership and seems far more interested in humanitarian purposes and pure R&D than it had been under Lex, but Clark has learned not to trust a Luthor. Admittedly, Edge hardly seems interested in what Lena is saying – his eyes keep dragging to the youngest of the Jenner’s. 

Clark tries to keep his face from showing his distaste. She is at least twenty years younger than him.

A commotion breaks his attention away. A sleek dark gray Aston Martin pulls up and Bruce Wayne pops out, flipping his keys to the valet, the whole time smiling to the paparazzi standing on the red carpet. 

He rolls his eyes and wanders off toward a waiter. Rich people snacks were pretty awful, but they are more interesting than Bruce doing his act. Clark understands, gets it more now that he’s had time to ruminate on it, has come to know Bruce as a person somewhere far from Brucie, closer to Batman, but also not. It doesn’t mean he has to like the affectation Bruce puts on or his ridiculous fawning that would make Edge’s lecherous stare seem modest.

“Not your kind of place?” a woman’s voice asks.

Clark turns to find himself next to Lena’s 5’6 slight frame. He towers over her.

“Not particularly,” he says, fumbling with his glasses, then cringing as he notes his own affectation. Bruce would love the hypocritical thoughts in his head tonight. “My editor, he, uh, I think he’s punishing me.”

“Oh, press?” She nods, taking in his outfit and press badge. “Explains the lack of Armani and the presence of sleeves.” She gestures with her head at some man wearing a fluttering cloak that lets his aesthetically muscled biceps show the same way a woman might wear a revealing slit in her skirt. Lena’s mouth purses with humor. Then she focuses her attention on him, holding out her hand.

“Lena Lu—”

“Luthor, yes. I know who you are, Ms. Luthor.”

“Ah,” she says lightly. “I see my reputation proceeds me. Or my brother’s. You are?”

“Clark Kent. Daily Planet.” He manages a handshake, glad the glass of pop he’s been holding has made his hand vaguely clammy.

“Well, Clark Kent. Thank you for solving the mystery for me. I was trying to figure out if you were the next Mark Zuckerberg or a YouTube star. You have the looks for both.”

Clark flushes. He isn’t even sure what she is getting at, but anyone commenting on his looks is cause for embarrassment in his mind. Was she flirting? He can never tell.

“Perhaps I can adjust your previous assessment of me if I introduce you to some of the more interesting people here? I’m terribly bored and I wouldn’t mind letting the weasel into the snake’s den.”

She raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow, waiting his response.

He clears his throat. “What did you have in mind, Ms. Luthor?”

She grimaces. “Please. Lena. My family and I have been in contention since…well, I’m sure you know. I’ll always be a Luthor, but I prefer to be treated as my own woman.”

He nods. “Lena, then.”

She smiles, and it really is a pretty smile. She is confident and sure. Steady. On the outside, she doesn’t have any of the characteristics of Lex, who stammered and gesticulated as errant and large as his ego. At the same time, Clark can’t risk that Lex hadn’t passed his notes onto another family member. He decides to spend some time with her if only to try to determine if she has _him_ figured out.

“Let’s go bother Edge and Wayne. Edge is a capitalist whore who hates the press, even the ones he owns. It’ll be fun to watch him sweat.” She laughs, easy and light. “By the way, that comment was completely off the record.”

“I’ll allow it this once,” Clark responds, finding himself smiling back at her.

He also finds himself being brought along behind the small woman as she easily finds her way through the crowd to bring him up to a group of individuals that does include Bruce and Edge. Bruce happens to have two women clinging to his arms – one that Jenner girl – while Morgan only has one and Clark can’t help but notice the burning stares Edge gives Bruce when he thinks he isn’t looking. If the venture capitalist had had Clark’s laser eyes, Bruce would have been dead instantly.

He and Lena exchange a glance.

He and Bruce also exchange a look, one that, on Bruce’s end, means _what the fuck are you doing, Kent?_

Clark shrugs, giving the barest nod towards Lena.

“Oh, Lena. How unusual to see you here,” Bruce states.

Lena flips her ponytail. “You boys aren’t the only ones with money in the Metropolis entertainment sector.”

From there, the three billionaires began to talk shop and Clark makes mental notes on all threads, but with a personal ear to Bruce’s chatter. It is impressive how he manages to seem knowledgeable about currencies and WaynePharma while still sounding utterly vapid and bored. Clark also notices his eye wandering, but it isn’t after the half-naked women that float through the party but rather on Dent. It seems Batman might be here on a mission after all, rather than only putting in Brucie time.

Several times, he also notices Bruce looking at him with interest when he contributes something to the conversation, perhaps especially because at no point does he reveal himself as press.

Finally, something Edge says catches his attention; it also seems to have caught Lena’s, whose look is downright hostile. “What was that about swimming pools?”

“Just that, I couldn’t help but notice that a particular compound that seems to come from, well, is manufactured by LexCorp, has been poisoning children.”

Lena’s gaze darkens but Clark cuts in. “Do you have evidence to prove that? Can I quote you on that?”

Morgan looks at him with a befuddled expression on his handsome features.

“That’s right, Morgan. I never introduced my friend. This is Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” Lena says, sickly sweet.

They watch as Edge’s face grows red and scrunches into a scowl, the scar on his chin becoming more prominent. “None of that was on the record,” he hisses and stomps off, pretty girl tripping over her heels to keep up.

Bruce flat out guffaws and Clark wheels on him, surprised. “Oh, Mr. Kent! That was brilliantly played. I don’t think I’ve seen Edge so flustered. Well done.”

“I, uh,” stammers Clark.

Bruce waves a hand and steps away, gently detaching himself from the women at the bar as he takes up another glass. 

“Clark,” came Lena’s voice from his other side. “I am hoping he is making it up, but I want to assure you – and not only because you’re a reporter – I am going to look into his claims. I can’t think of any chemical or byproduct created in my term that would have such an effect, but I know Lex had many side projects. If you hold this story for a few days, I will get you more information.”

Clark looks at her. She seems flustered, but genuinely concerned. He hasn’t known her long, but nothing about her reaction gives him the usual symptoms of a lie. He decides, in this, he will trust her to get back to him.

“I look forward to your call,” he says, and she nods at him. In a blur, she is walking at a clipped pace, already on the phone with someone as she leaves the party.

Clark stands there for a moment, somewhat shocked by the turn of events that might lead to a scoop that could take down LexCorp, all from a celebutante party. He’s interrupted by a clearing of a throat.

He turns to find Bruce and an entourage. He appears inebriated, heavily listing to the side, eyes half-mast and double-fisting champagne. 

“I just have to say, that was a spectacular display of brains. I wouldn’t have expected it from someone who looks as good as you do.”

Had that moment been a movie, Clark is sure there would have been a record screech effect.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, pushing his glasses up his nose, unsure if he heard correctly, super hearing or not.

“Are you dating anyone, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes,” Clark responds slowly, unsure where this was going. Bruce knows he and Lois are together. After all, he’s the one who brought Lois to him when he was resurrected. Admittedly, _Bruce Wayne_ shouldn’t know that, but.

“Hm. Pity.” Bruce clucks his tongue. “You should break up with her.”

“What? Why?” asks Clark, sure his surprise is showing on his face.

Bruce leans in, his cologne wafting strong to Clark’s nose. To anyone else, it would be a subtle scent. But it isn’t the woodsy notes that make Clark start to sweat. No, it’s the deeper layers: the leather, the copper tang, motor oil – he must have worked on the car earlier today. Under all of that, something undefinable that is Bruce’s natural smell, his particular mix of pheromones. 

Clark tries not to back away, tug on his collar. Bruce catches sight of his fidget though and smiles a shark grin.

“I’m bored. You look like a good time.”

As he says this, Bruce’s hand is suddenly free of a glass and falls to his waist, sliding down to his hip before pulling him in tight. Clark struggles not to stumble as he allows his body the movement, more out of continued shock than any attempt to not appear immovable.

“Mr. Wayne. That’s very inappropriate,” he manages to stammer again, unable to hide his blush. What is Bruce doing?

Bruce shrugs, a careless roll of his shoulders that somehow pulls Clark in closer. “I can tell you’re still new, Mr. Kent. It’s very charming. I’m always inappropriate,” he responds with a lascivious wink.

“Oh, Brucie!” came a cry from halfway across the room. A woman who had obviously been stunning in her youth but now bordered on garish with her makeup application was waving at Bruce when they both turned to look.

“Saved by the pocketbook,” Bruce says, giving his hip another squeeze. “I’ll let you go this time, Kent. But keep me in mind if you do.”

This comment is met with a quiet round of giggles from the close standbys.

Clark is finally able to step away, still confused. “If I do, what?”

“Break up. With your girlfriend,” Bruce drawls and smacks Clark’s ass before holding his arms out dramatically and calling out, “Cecilia, darling!” leaving Clark staring gobsmacked as his – friend? His coworker? – walks away.

A moment later, he feels a soft, masculine hand on his arm and meets warm brown eyes. “Oh, honey, don’t worry. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”

“Hmm?” Clark half asks, still trying to recover himself. 

“To be at the mercy of Brucie’s flirting. He means it and he doesn’t. I mean, if you’re amenable, he means it. But he won’t pursue if you’re not.” The man, who is thin with flowing brown hair that matches his eyes, a mustache straight from the early 1900’s, and a brightly patterned ascot frowns at him. “You’re not having some kind of sexuality crisis, are you? If you’re actually straight, he won’t pursue, either…”

“Oh, no.” Clark stumbles. “I mean. I’m not, _not_ , well,” he trails off with an awkward shrug. His face feels red.

“Alright, honey. Frankly, I’m surprised he noticed you. But then, he and Edge do have a thing and you took him out easily. If you happen to _want_ to catch his eye, next time, I recommend navy. It’ll bring out your blues.” The man grins and practically flounces away. Clark barely registers the white heeled boots the other man is wearing, though he hears them click on the marble floor as he walks off back to his group.

Clark tries to pull himself together, deciding it is time to leave.

See, what’s got him confused is: at no point was Bruce lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: [Lena Luthor](http://tinypic.com/m/k2zb86/3), [Harvey Dent (minus scars)](http://tinypic.com/m/k2zb85/3), [Morgan Edge](http://tinypic.com/m/k2zb7t/3)
> 
> Cookies for the person who guesses who the man at the end is before the reveal. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

Clark finds himself summoned to the cave via League communicator three days later.

In the short time since he’s been back, this is the first time he’s been to the cave without any other League members. He and Bruce have come to an understanding where they no longer want to fight each other and can work as teammates – as they had done against Steppenwolf – but Bruce still hasn’t warmed to him. He thinks Bruce may be more comfortable once the Manor is reconstructed and they have dedicated team space, rather than invading his personal Batcave.

He takes it in with curiosity, despite having seen it before. Without Diana or Barry there to initiate conversation, Bruce doesn’t even acknowledge him at first, furiously typing on his computer. In one corner of the cave, Clark can see a small lab set up including a mass spectrometer, microscope, and a fridge he assumes is for samples. With a quick x-ray glance, he makes out a medical facility and training room that crossfit gyms across the country would be jealous of. He also notices a set of rings and a pommel horse. The middle of the cave is wide open though, filled with glass and rock, the tank of a vehicle Bruce calls a Batmobile. Then on one wall, a glass case—

“Stop snooping, Clark.”

He doesn’t start, but it’s a near thing.

“Hello to you, too.”

He gets a grunt in response. The Bat – always loquacious. He floats closer to Bruce, taking in the streaks of grey, the sweat from patrol that darkens his hair further. The faint scent of motor oil and leather brings him back to being pressed up against the man. He tamps that thought down.

“How can I help you, Bruce?”

“Diana told me I need to make nice. Be a team player.”

“Did she?” Clark asks, not surprised in the least. Bruce and Diana have an interesting rapport, built on a mutual understanding, curiosity, and – Clark suspects – a mutual attraction. She appears to be the only one able to tell Bruce anything with nothing more than a pinched look on his face, compared to the pure shutdown or diatribe others tend to receive. 

Her and Barry. Not that Barry ever tries to tell Bruce how to do anything; he’s too young, too easy-going and still somewhat star struck, but he doesn’t get the arguments, either. If anything, he’s the one most likely to be at the receiving end of a small Bruce Wayne smile, even if Bruce is perpetually confused by his tendency to use memes as normal conversation.

Now that Clark considers it, it’s mostly him at the brunt end of Batman’s rants and pushback. Even Arthur gets mostly gruff dismissal. 

_I don’t_ not _like you._

He considers. “She told you, you needed to try to get along better with _me_ , specifically.”

Bruce shrugs. “Not exactly. But regardless, I believe your…insight would be useful here.”

“Is Batman actually asking me to work a case with him?”

Bruce shoots him a dark look. “I will work the case. You will assist.”

Clark lets the humor he’s feeling show on his face. “Anything you say. Partner.”

Bruce sighs, looking all the world like he’s suffering an idiot to live. He turns back to the terminal. Clark moves in closer, sitting on the edge of the desk perpendicular to the one Bruce is at.

“Do you pay attention to politics at all?”

Clark eyes him. 

“Let me rephrase. Do you happen to know about this year’s special election for Gotham’s mayor?”

“I know about it. Harvey Dent, the DA is running, right?”

“Yes.” Bruce pulls up two pictures, one of Dent, one of a man who appears to be Latino. Dent’s pictures are almost always taken at an angle, focused on his right side, but Clark can still see the startling absence of lips and glint of his teeth where they should be, the lines of scars on the left side of his face, and a hint of the hair that grew back, but grew back in white instead of blond after the accident. “Dent and Anthony Garcia are the top runners. Mayoral elections are nonpartisan in Gotham but tend to skew along party lines anyway. Dent used to be Democrat-leaning. As DA before the accident, he championed justice reform, of both the process and prisons. He advocated for lesser sentences on drug cases. He helped the GCPD and Batman take down some of the top crime families in Gotham.

“Since the accident, he’s maintained his position as DA, but with it have come some serious changes in policy preference. He’s proposed crackdowns on the slums, advocated gentrification in such a way that does nothing but push the poor – and specifically black communities – out of their homes. He speaks about healthcare, but only as advancement for pharmaceutical companies; he has zero-tolerance for talk therapy, the ACA, or lesser-priced options. Finally, one of his main proposals on the campaign for mayor has been turning Arkham into a maximum-security prison for mentally unstable individuals, rather than a hospital.”

Bruce pauses, something flashing across his face that Clark can’t read.

“What most of Gotham doesn’t know, is that the accident wasn’t an accident, but a result of the same Joker campaign that took ten reported Gotham lives.”

His eyes deliberately avoid the gruesome memorial that is behind Clark. He can read the elephant in the room as much as anyone – the emphasis on _reported_ – but he keeps his mouth shut. Bruce will one day tell him about the suit of armor encased in glass – and what must have been an eleventh Joker victim – or he’ll remain silent. Clark’s learned enough to know this isn’t a battle he can win with sheer willpower.

“In the wake of his…disfigurement, and the loss of his fiancé, Harvey’s interests changed. Where once he believed in hope and the dawn of a new era for Gotham, he has taken a more Hobbesian approach, believing that a cruel world can only be dealt with through strict rule, and if that doesn’t work, then everyone meets their fate via chance. That last part isn’t something he advocates on the campaign trail, of course.”

Clark folds his arms across his chest, clucks his tongue. “It sounds like Harvey’s had a rough go of things.”

Bruce looks at him cuttingly. “Don’t let him fool you. Harvey was one of the best of us, but he was a golden child. He and Bruce Wayne attended the same prep school for some time; his family may not be Wayne wealthy, but their home in the Hamptons is nothing to sneer at. Still, he was able to look beyond his money and see the genuine need of many, even if he could not overcome his privilege.”

It always weirds Clark out when Bruce speaks about himself in the third person.

“Garcia, however, is the kind of candidate Dent would have approved of prior to the Joker. He’s first generation Colombian; his family fled from FARC-related violence in their home _corregimiento_ in the early 1980’s. He was born shortly after they were placed in Gotham. His platform advocates for Gotham to continue its status as a sanctuary city. He’s also proposed several green initiatives, free lunch for all students K-12, and city-wide programs focusing on health and wellness. His main tenet though, has yet to come. He’s planning to launch a huge proposal the night of the first debate – two weeks from now – that will layout a revitalization project at the coast, outside the Stevensburgh slums.”

Bruce throws up an image that twirls on the screen; a 3-D model that seems to show a large section of housing surrounded by a park and a shopping district.

“This project appears similar to what you said Dent wants. I thought you didn’t approve of gentrification.”

“There are two differences: the first is that Garcia plans to do this by giving the jobs to the unions and locals who are unemployed; it’s essentially a jobs program, a small-scale new deal for Stevensburgh. Second, he wants to keep the area focused on low-income housing and local business shops instead of adding another five Starbucks to Gotham. While no gentrification is problem-free, I appreciate the attempt to maintain the area for those who already live there, instead of moving in whites and corporations. I do not know the man personally, but my investigation into him has revealed nothing nefarious so far. He appears to truly be working on behalf of Gotham at large.”

“You said he hadn’t proposed this yet. How do you have all this?” Clark points to the model and blue prints projected on the large terminal.

Bruce gives him another withering stare. “It’s what I do. I _investigate_.” He gestures at the cave, lips pursed in such a way, with eyebrows raised, that suggests Clark is being deliberately obtuse.

“Alright,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender before placing them back on the desk to support himself as he kicks his legs out further, crossing his right leg over left. “So, all this is great and interesting, and I think I know who I’d vote for if I were a Gotham citizen, but where’s the case?”

“Garcia’s proposal in Stevensburgh is going to be in direct competition with another project proposal that has been prepared to go in front of city council by Morgan Edge. Edge has been trying to buy the same piece of land from the city for a gentrification project that is essentially a large strip mall, water park, and several new hotels.”

“I’m assuming he doesn’t have any plans to provide local jobs.”

“Unlikely. In fact, Edge is known to often have foreign investors for his larger real estate projects. He also hates unions and his businesses usually find loopholes to prevent or discourage their employees from creating or joining other unions.

“Even more relevant,“ Bruce continues, now pulling up what looks like tax forms, “is that Edge is fond of supporting political candidates he thinks will either return the favor later, or whose views align with his in terms of taxes and business. Edge is actually based in National City though he operates in Gotham and Metropolis as well. National City is also electing a mayor this year.”

Clark rubs his lips with his fingers, considering. “He probably has a horse in that race. And if Edge wants his proposal passed through for Gotham, I bet he’s keen on Dent.”

“Exactly. In National City, Edge has monetarily backed a man named Trent Larson. Larson is a rare politician in California who is unafraid of voicing his support for the current president. Larson is interested in removing National City’s status as a sanctuary city and he subscribes to the fearmongering regarding immigrants and refugees from Latin and South American countries.

“About six months ago, when Harvey announced his candidacy for mayor after Timms stepped down in the wake of scandal, Edge quietly set up a SuperPAC for him. Almost every ad Gotham citizens have seen have been sponsored by this PAC, including several that focus on promoting the idea that Garcia is not an American-born citizen or that he’s aligned with cartels and looking to bring drugs into Gotham.”

“All of this still seems perfectly legal, if distasteful. Politics as usual.”

“Perhaps. When Harvey started out, he was in the lead. His accident has gained him popularity points through the years, even with his change in policy preferences. As DA, he was able to garner goodwill from many other prominent politicians and elites in Gotham. However, Garcia has managed a grassroots level campaign that has galvanized millennials and current college students who can vote and has slowly been chipping away at Dent’s lead. He’s also got the support of many low middle class voters and minority voters.”

As Bruce says this, he pulls up several polls ranging from Gallup to _The Gotham Gazette_ , spanning the last four months. Clark skims them; they all support Bruce’s words.

“Two months ago, as Harvey took his first hit in the polls, Edge bought a subsidiary of a subsidiary. The parent corporation is known as Premier Voting Solutions. The subsidiary? A manufacturer of voting machines.”

Clark’s beginning to see. “You’re thinking because his top candidate is sliding in the polls, Edge has taken some stop-gap measures and bought the ability to stuff the ballot box.”

Bruce looks at him and nods. “Larson is also falling in the polls. These voting machines can be deployed anywhere in the US. I’ve had a…consultant I occasionally use look into the source code. She says its far below the minimal security that should be used to protect the machines from being hacked.”

“Okay,” he says. “I get why this is a problem now. Buying votes, literally by buying the machines, is illegal and dangerous given the potential policy ramifications for the two cities if Edge succeeds. But why are you involved? What can Batman do here that law enforcement can’t? Why not send an anonymous tip to the FBI?”

Bruce snorts. The sound is sudden and startling as it echoes through the cavern. “The FBI can’t find its own ass right now. Given its lack of interest in election fraud on the federal level, I don’t imagine they much care about what’s going on in a localized mayoral election, even if Gotham and National City are two of the biggest metropolis’ in the country.”

“Even so, it seems like you’ve gathered all the evidence; surely they couldn’t ignore it?”

Bruce sighs, slouching down in his chair. He looks tired. “I can’t prove motive, Clark. Until interference happens, Edge’s lawyers could get around any claim of election engineering. His purchase of the subsidiary is perfectly legal if an odd addition to his business portfolio. A hunch and logically connected facts do not make for a criminally provable case in a court room.

“As to what Batman can do, he can gather more evidence. Specifically, via Bruce Wayne. I interact with both Harvey and Morgan through social and business circles. Now they’re not likely to believe I’m a sudden supporter of Dent’s policies out of the blue. Wayne and Wayne Enterprises are too known for their more liberal-leaning policies and initiatives. 

“But Brucie and Harvey have been friends a long time. It’s not entirely implausible that he could be convinced to go against his principles to support his friend, especially if he comes to believe the sales pitch Harvey puts on for him.”

“You know him well?” Clark asks, sensing something underlying Bruce’s tone.

The other man steeples his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees. Finally, he looks up at Clark, tilting his head back so he can look him in the eye, exposing his pale neck and the vivid dark circles under his eyes. It makes him look gaunt, despite the bulk. It makes him look his age. 

Clark digs his fingers into his palm, keeping himself from reaching out and brushing away the bangs that hang over his eyes, the same impulse he has when a strand of Lois’ hair falls from behind her ear or out of her bun. 

“Harvey was Bruce’s— _my_ best friend. I failed him like all the others who died; another casualty of the Batman’s war with the Joker. He never knew the Batman’s identity, but he was the one person I considered telling, especially all those years where it was only me, Alfred, and the mission. But he changed; he took the wrong lesson from the Joker. He remains Bruce Wayne’s friend, but I don’t trust him.”

_I can’t trust anyone_ , Clark read. He and Bruce might not be friends, but he feels a deep sadness for the man. He knows too well what that was like – living a life devoid of meaningful connections out of fear of hurting others. 

He sometimes thinks back to that night, when the Bat had been so set on killing something he deemed a god gone mad, and Superman himself had been determined to stop a menace; they were so similar despite their methods and in their loneliness, they had nearly destroyed each other.

He bites his lip. Bruce doesn’t want his understanding. He doesn’t want his friendship. He is a teammate, a casual coworker, nothing more.

They stand there in mutual silence until the door opens upstairs and Alfred bustles into the moment with aplomb and a tray of cookies.

Clark laughs in surprise; he hadn’t heard the butler.

“Gentleman, you’ve been down here for some time and I thought refreshments were due.” Alfred continues down the stairs and then stills at the desk Clark is sitting on, setting down the tray. “You do drink coffee, don’t you, Mr. Kent?”

“I do,” Clark responds warmly. He glances sideways to see Bruce rolling his eyes as Alfred putters with filling a mug. “A little creamer and two sugars, if you have them.”

“Of course.”

Once Alfred hands Clark his mug, he prepares another and brings it over to Bruce. Clark takes a sip and it’s hot and perfect. He sneaks a cookie from the tray. Snickerdoodle.

“Ah, Mr. Dent,” Alfred says, voice rife with knowledge and something like sadness, as he looks at the image of Harvey onscreen.

Bruce grunts in what Clark supposes is thanks when Alfred hands him a mug of coffee, black apparently. Alfred continues to stand there though, seemingly waiting and eventually Bruce turns his attention on him.

“Was there something else?”

“Only the politeness of eating the food brought to you.”

Clark hides a smile in his mug as he watches a battle of wills play out between the two men in a stare. He’s got a cookie in hand and slides it over on the desk when Bruce inevitably caves with another grunt. Bruce shoves the whole thing in his mouth in protest and for a moment he’s got chipmunk cheeks and Clark has to clear his throat to avoid chuckling. Bruce catches it with sharp eyes.

Alfred watches him chew and swallow it down and Clark half expects Bruce to open his mouth and show his guardian it’s gone by sticking out his tongue, asking if he’s happy. The tilt of Alfred’s eyebrow is lovingly patient and indulgent even as his face remains passive.

“Very good, sir,” he says, heading back toward the stairs. He pauses at the base. “Perhaps you should invite Mr. Kent over more, Master Wayne. He appears to be a good influence on you.”

With that, he sweeps away with a speed befitting the man who raised the Bat.

Clark bites the inside of his cheek hard and chooses to offer Bruce another cookie.

“Don’t say a word,” Bruce hisses at him, but he accepts the cookie and Clark maintains an innocent expression.

Bruce continues to eye him as Clark eats another two cookies and takes a drink. “These are really good,” he says. Then he gestures to the screen with the hand not holding his mug. “What’s my part in this? If Bruce Wayne is going to get more information and try to stop election tampering, what role does Superman have?”

“None. Clark Kent, however, has the power of the pen. I want you to write the article that exposes the fraud after. That means, in part, that you need to be involved for your editorial approach.”

Clark nods. “You don’t feel a criminal case can be brought, but bring it to the court of the public…”

“I’m adopting some of your optimism that they’ll put down their celeb gossip for a day and care about the damage to norms and this country.”

Clark can no longer resist. He reaches out an arm enough to rest his hand briefly on Bruce’s shoulder. “People are fundamentally good, Bruce. They’ll care.”

Bruce gives him a wan smile.

“We’ve got three months until the November election. Guess we’ll find out then. In the meantime, the debate is in two weeks. I need you to make sure Perry sends you. I want Clark Kent on hand, but I also want Superman there in case Edge has something planned.”

“Lois normally takes the local politics beat, but I’m sure I can convince them both to send me along.”

Clark thinks he detects a minuscule flinch from the other man. 

“Good.” Bruce turns his back.

He’s been dismissed.

Clark isn’t done, though. “So.”

When Clark doesn’t say anything further, Bruce turns his head back over his shoulder to stare with a raised eyebrow, obviously willing to wait him out.

“The other night. The event with the Instagram models?”

“I recall. What about it?”

“You, um.” Clark feels speechless under Bruce’s intense stare. “You, maybe, uh, flirted with me?”

Somehow the expression on his face doesn’t change, yet Clark knows Bruce is categorizing every movement he makes, suddenly with more focus. After a few moments of dour face, Bruce replies, “I don’t flirt. Brucie Wayne flirts.”

“Ah,” Clark says, in a tone that suggests it’s still unclear.

With a frustrated noise, Bruce spins back around completely. “There needs to be a distraction. If Bruce is going to be involved in finding out evidence instead of the Batman, there needs to be a facade, something to deflect attention from what the right hand is doing.”

“And that’s flirting with Clark Kent.” He puts every bit of incredulity into that line as he can.

“Brucie may need an excuse to be seen speaking with a reporter, for being at the same events, speaking to one another. A flirtation is what the people of Gotham expect from him.”

Clark pauses and then states, curiosity obvious in his voice, “This, despite the fact that Brucie hasn’t had a public flirtation that draws attention in several years?”

In fact, from the time of Joker, Clark realizes, connecting today’s conversation with the brief homework he did on playboy billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne.

“Bruce Wayne is always in a tabloid somewhere.” Bruce’s hard tone lets Clark know he’s pushing his luck. This isn’t Brucie he’s dealing with – not quite the Bat either, but close.

His statement is true enough, though. He lets it slide. For now.

“Do you ever get tired of speaking about yourself in third person?” he finally asks, cheekily.

Dead silence for a moment, then, “Get out, Kent.”

In a tiny burst of super speed, Clark moves the tray of cookies over to the terminal desk and then hovers before flying toward the water exit. “Eat another cookie, Bruce,” he calls out, chuckling the whole way home, feeling warm inside.

Bruce had been amused. Maybe they could be friends after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments, beloved readers! Each one has made me grin with pure joy. <3

The next event at least isn’t another celebrity-sponsored event, though, as with any Gotham fundraiser, it is filled with them. Perry’s decided to stop punishing him and this ball is for the GCPD. Uniforms are everywhere and once again, Clark finds Harvey Dent in the background, talking to a small number of cops.

Clark fidgets with the lapel of his navy suit coat. He’s rolling his eyes and second-guessing everything because why did he decide to take fashion advice from a man in white heels? Not that the man hadn’t looked fantastic, but he was a stranger and his words _if you want to catch his eye_ – well Clark didn’t care about Bruce Wayne, did he. 

Lois is arriving in the early am, back from Qatar, where she’s been following up on the diplomatic crisis between Qatar and Saudi Arabia as part of an ongoing series. He doesn’t envy her the over twelve-hour flight inside an airplane, but mostly, he’s feeling a bit put out at being here by himself. Unless Lois is there to ease him into conversation or if he’s actively pursuing a comment, Clark tends to be a wallflower at these events.

He’s been lingering in a corner for about ten minutes, politely drinking the free wine provided despite its robust earthy notes he doesn’t enjoy and the fact that the alcohol sits about as pleasant on his tongue as rubbing alcohol would. He checks his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, wondering when he can leave the parade of blue uniforms and fawning women.

He’s about convinced himself he can leave when he hears a low whistle behind him.

He turns and is confronted with the sight of a cheeky Bruce Wayne stripped of his jacket, standing only in his waistcoat, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. He’s got a blonde on one arm, and an ensemble of men and women hanger-ons lingering behind him. They’re all lovely but in a way that sets his teeth on edge as he forces himself to ignore their botox, their silicon, the vapid stares, and a few cocaine-lined noses.

He can’t afford to feel pity, to consider himself better just because he made some different choices. Just because he wants in on the company they keep, even if it is a façade.

He wonders how Bruce – the real Bruce – tolerates them.

Clark hears his Ma’s voice scolding him.

He glances again at the woman on Bruce’s arm. Her hair is so blonde as to be platinum. She looks vaguely familiar.

“You clean up nice, Kent,” says Brucie and it’s almost sincere enough to seem like maybe _Bruce_ means it.

He rolls his eyes anyway, because at no point did Bruce say Clark had to go along with the Brucie charade.

Bruce holds up his hands in a symbol of surrender. “No, no, I mean it. Navy’s a good color on you. Much better than the brown you wore the first time we met.” Then he grins. “And that suit does great things for your ass.”

His entourage titters.

“Is there something you want, Mr. Wayne?” Clark asks, through gritted teeth. He _had_ been looking forward to going home.

“A date?” Brucie asks, face completely serious with a hint of earnest sincerity.

“Mr. Way—”

“A moment of your time, then? Please. Would your editor approve if you turned down a moment with Bruce Wayne?”

Perry probably wouldn’t.

“Fine,” he says, clipped. He watches as this event’s entourage wanders off with a wave of Bruce’s hand.

Bruce turns to his – date? Friend? – and says, “Would you fetch me another drink, doll?”

Clark watches while she sizes him up, gauging how much Clark might be a threat. Her eyes – light enough in color that if not for his enhanced senses, he wouldn’t be able to tell if they were blue or gray – are intelligent and Clark scolds himself once more for his petty thoughts earlier. He considers this woman knows exactly what she’s doing and is less concerned by the thought of whether Bruce might actually be attracted to her and more into it for the exposure his shadow lends. Clark thinks Lois would respect her – what does she call it? – her hustle.

He smiles at her in a way he hopes comes across as camaraderie. One professional to another.

After another moment of consideration, the woman winks at him. “Of course, Brucie,” she says, leaning up and Bruce leans down, placing a peck on his cheek. She walks off and disappears into the crowd.

“See something you like?” Bruce asks, somehow closer in less time than it took Clark to blink. His voice is quiet and his own.

“She seems different from your usual,” he says, instead of acknowledging Bruce’s pointed remark.

“Silver?” Bruce asks, looking after the woman. “She and I grew up together.” He pauses and laughs, a small chuckle; rare. “She was the first date I ever took to one of these things. I believe it was my eleventh-grade prom. She was the talk of the school – the only freshman asked.”

Clark can’t help his smile. Bruce rarely offers up a piece of his past so freely.

Bruce is wearing different cologne today. There’s a touch of citrus to the bergamot and patchouli. Underneath it, the ever-present hint of leather and the tang of steel. Clark finds himself almost melting, especially when Bruce takes another step closer, lowering his head just enough to put his mouth at Clark’s ear. It’s absolutely unnecessary – Clark could hear him whisper across the room, if he knew to listen. But it’s a show they’re putting on.

It doesn’t stop the minute shiver down his spine when Bruce’s breath – ginger ale and tobacco, like Bruce took one drag of a cigarette, maybe even pulled it from Silver’s fingers – hits his ear.

“Harvey’s here,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Clark responds.

“I saw him talking to the captain of the downtown precinct earlier. The captain is Gordon’s biggest detractor. His Facebook follows Blue Lives Matter pages, some pro-gun websites, and he writes a lot of professionally written, but thinly-veiled racist sentiments regarding crime in Gotham.”

“Dent’s keeping great company these days.”

Bruce makes a disinterested noise. “You’re up. I need a distraction.”

Before he can ask, Silver is back with Bruce’s drink. It’s his usual; watered down ginger ale.

She knows. She knows?

Bruce steps away from Clark, leaving his side feeling unnaturally cold. Their hands brush as he takes the scotch glass. Her silver-tipped nails trail over his knuckles as Bruce leans down to place a friendly kiss on her lips. Clark catches both their eyes wandering over the crowd as Silver deepens it. It’s nothing lewd or shocking, it’s still friendly, if a little more _friendly_ than most. Her fingers cradle Bruce’s elbow and his hand not holding the glass falls to her hip. It lasts all of five seconds, but Clark can hear the snick of at least two phone cameras capturing it.

When they part, Silver shoots Clark another wink like they’re in this together, like she knows what’s going on between him and Bruce. Then she’s off, catching the arm of another woman as they go off, giggling like schoolgirls when a policeman tips his hat.

Clark is aroused: he can feel the pink in his cheek, feel his cock making initial stirrings. Funny if Silver thinks she knows what is going on when he doesn’t half the time. Hasn’t known since his feelings started getting entangled between one striking redhead and one raven-haired enigma.

Then Bruce is turning back towards him and he struggles to compose himself.

“So, Silver?” he asks, layer and layers of meaning making it into the two words.

Bruce tilts his head, taking a sip of the ginger ale, appearing to enjoy a finely aged scotch on the rocks. “She is an alcoholic. She believes I am a recovering one as well. We both understand how such a weakness could be exploited in our circles, how admitting to alcoholism is worse than being an alcoholic. We…flatter each other.”

“Now,” he says, ignoring the other question Clark had silently asked, voice loud enough to reach other ears as he swings a companionable arm around his shoulder and begins pushing him over to the buffet. “Have you broken up with that girlfriend of yours, yet? A man can only wait so long, Kent!”

As he stumbles along with Bruce, Clark he doesn’t have to fake his clumsiness or the red-tipped ears as he lets out a shocked, “Mr. Wayne!”

“Brucie, please!” Bruce draws his body back slightly, still using his hand to steer Clark. “We really should be past these formalities by now.”

The end up on the dessert end, facing a chocolate fountain and the champagne tower. It’s grotesque in its lavishness, especially when the money could have gone to the department or anything else really, but he supposes some of these wealthy donors, it’s what they expect, and they might even think it’s a way to ‘treat’ the boys in blue.

Bruce reaches forward and grabs a flute, passing it to Clark who takes it with a blink of confusion. Brucie’s arm has fallen off his shoulder and now rests on his lower back. The heat of it is making him sweat.

“You really should think about my proposal.”

Clark takes a sip for the sake of something to do. “I wasn’t aware you’d made one.”

He risks a glance at Bruce, who is wearing the smallest tick of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

“I’d have thought it was obvious. I’m practically on my knees for you.”

Clark lets out a snort at that, unable to control it. Brucie pouts as he takes another sip of his drink, but his hand glides up under Clark’s blazer and the Bat pinches his side hard enough even for him to notice, though it’s not pain so much as a pressure-like annoyance.

“Mr. Wayne, nothing you do is obvious. Aside from drinking. For example, what do you care about the police in Gotham?”

Bruce goes along with it, releasing his hold and moving behind Clark while he appears to be eyeing the fruit in front of them. “WayneTech works with the brave men and women in blue in order to make better armor and vehicles to keep them safe on the streets. I admire anyone who chooses to risk their life to defend this city.

“The police in this town don’t only deal with small time muggers and bank robberies. They protect Gotham’s citizens from dangers only this city knows. I’d think you’d appreciate it. After all, first responders, including police, were the ones who picked up Metropolis in the wake of Black Zero.”

Clark stiffens and hisses under his breath. Bruce means what he said, if he doesn’t mean it in a way to belittle Superman personally, anymore. It still stings. Cutting remarks like that make him wonder how Bruce can stand to be near him, why he brought him back, why he chose this charade that leads to him reaching an arm from behind Clark, front pressed in tight to Clark’s back, as he reaches for a strawberry.

It’s a perfect shade of deep red and uniform on all sides. It’s the prettiest strawberry from the pile.

As he stretches further, running the fruit under the molten chocolate, Bruce takes the opportunity to speak into his ear again. “See Harvey by the band? He’s chatting with a few officers and the Gotham police commissioner. I’m going to introduce you. You are going to distract them while I get close enough to clone his phone. Engage them with some journalistic inquiries into the benefit, into Harvey’s policy positions, whatever it takes.”

Bruce steps back then, holding out the strawberry on the tips of his fingers, offering it for Clark. Embarrassed, Clark starts to reach for it with his hand, but Bruce presses down on it before it makes it past waist-level.

“People are watching, Clark.”

His face is sculpted into a perfect leer, but his eyes are cold stone. It’s almost reassuring.

Breathing heavily through his nose for a moment, summoning courage as he indeed feels a good chunk of the room’s eyes on them, including the group Bruce has just suggested distracting, he tilts his head far enough forward to take a bite. Not wanting to show his teeth like a hungry wolf, he wraps his lips around the strawberry in such a way that he realizes, belatedly, isn’t any better of a look.

Still he bites down, juice and crunchy chocolate bursting in his mouth. His eyes close at the intensity of the flavors and when he opens them, he notices two things: one, Bruce isn’t looking at him. Oh, he would seem to be to any other observer, but he is, in fact, staring somewhere around eyebrow level and through Clark, like he’s somewhere else entirely. Two: Dent’s party is outright staring, Dent with a curled lip like he’s disgusted, the commissioner looks pained, and one of the officers looks somehow surprised and amused at the same time, his blue eyes zoned right into Clark’s.

He struggles not to choke with that intense gaze on him and he swallows a little less gracefully than intended. His small cough gets Bruce’s full attention.

Brucie smirks. “Now, just imagine sucking on divine strawberries all night long, courtesy of my penthouse fridge.”

Clark coughs again, this time from both the awfulness of the euphemism and it’s not-so hidden meaning. He licks his lips, tracing the last of the red juice with his tongue, keeping up the show. He lets his eyes fall half-mast and this time he’s the one reaching for another strawberry. The stretch and two-inch difference means this puts his ass right in the vee of Bruce’s crotch. As he straightens up, he keeps his hips pushed back, in a way that isn’t downright filthy but would certainly suggest some form of intimacy to an outside viewer.

Fair’s fair, right?

Suddenly, Bruce’s hand lashes out, grasping his hip tight enough to bruise if he were normal. The top of the strawberry he was holding is floating in the glass now sitting on the buffet table.

He can’t tell if Bruce is doing it to stop him, or to keep him there. There’s nothing to suggest Bruce is affected by it, aside from an uptick in his heartbeat, in the pulse Clark can feel thrumming through his fingertips where they rest, even through layers of clothes.

“You’re playing with fire, son,” says the Bat and it’s all Clark can do not to moan. He’s beginning to realize that voice does things to him. That maybe it has since the first time he heard it asking so pointedly if he bled.

Bruce’s hand slowly loosens, leaving Clark feeling weak-kneed, and slips back up to friendly level, guiding him with one hand on his lower back to the gaggle of viewers who have turned back to their previous discussion, though the cop with the blue eyes is still starring at them as they make their way over.

Bruce pauses at the bar to grab another drink, offering the bartender, a slip of a man barely legal himself, a wink and a nice tip for the ginger ale in a fancy glass.

By the time they reach Dent, Clark’s calmed himself down enough to know he’s back to being bumbling, mild-mannered reporter Kent. Someone who is embarrassed and unused to the attention he receives from Bruce Wayne, rather than Clark – _Superman_ – who wants something more from the man who raised him from the dead, even if he doesn’t know what entirely that is.

They come up to the group and Bruce grandly gestures with one arm while moving to Clark’s opposite side – closer to Dent – and says, “Gentleman. May I introduce Clark Kent? He’s a reporter from The Daily Planet. Did you hear how scathingly he cut down Edge at the launch of Metropolis’ newest TV network last week? Marvelous, to say the least.”

“Uh, hi,” Clark says, eloquently.

Dent makes a decidedly unimpressed noise in the back of his throat. “Mr. Kent. I want to know how the story about Lena Luthor is going. Why haven’t I seen an expose on her murdering those children, yet?”

He clears his throat. “So far, I’ve seen no evidence that Ms. Luthor was involved. Financials have been time-consuming to track, but I suspect LexCorp is not at fault.”

Another disgusted noise. “All you Metropolis people, you’re just in love with your Luthors.”

Clark raises an eyebrow. That’s a first anyone’s accused him of.

The young cop cuts in with a snort. “Dent, you’re an idiot. Clearly you haven’t read any of Kent’s writing. He’s definitely not a fan of the Luthor name.”

“I don’t have time for gossip about Superman sightings. When Mr. Kent writes real news, maybe I’ll pay attention. Then again, maybe you only care because your daddy—”

The heavily mustached commissioner cuts in with a quiet, “Harvey.” Surprisingly, it shuts the man up, though the attractive portion of his face is pinched. The cop is glaring daggers at him.

The commissioner turns to Clark, holding out his hand. His red hair is heavily sprinkled with grey. He’s older than Bruce but seems incredibly sharp and fit for a man somewhere in his sixties. “Jim Gordon. Thank you for attending tonight. It’s an honor to have such a distinguished Planet writer here. Even if I would have rather met your partner. No offense, but she’s a sight for these sore, old eyes.”

Clark grins. “I understand, Commissioner. I’ll let her know you were interested. She’s on a flight back from Qatar, but she does enjoy a good day trip to Gotham, if you’re ever interested in giving an interview.”

The corner of his mouth tilts up under his mustache. “I’m not sure my wife will much like that.”

Clark notices that the second cop, a tall black man, slips off after an exchange of words with the blue-eyed cop, leaving it just the three of them. He watches curiously as the man leaves, meeting up with a few other cops. Their uniforms are different from most of the others at the benefit. A slightly different shade of blue. A different patch. He looks at the one on the cop still in front of him. BHPD. A suburb?

He looks up and sees the cop staring back at him, just as curious.

Bruce takes that moment to introduce them. “Mr. Kent. I’d like you to meet my son, Richard Grayson.”

Clark stops and has to force himself to not squeeze the champagne glass he finds he’s still holding in shock. “Your son?”

Bruce gives a very not Brucie smirk at him.

“I didn’t, I didn’t know you had a son.”

The cop – _Richard_ – drawls. “Gee, Bruce. I’m hurt. You didn’t tell him about me?” He looks up at Clark. “It’s Dick, by the way. And you’ll have to forgive him. He’s been treating me like a bird fallen out of the nest since I moved to Bludhaven seven years ago.”

Clark takes in the man who is Bruce Wayne’s son. He’s tall, if shorter than Clark, with a haircut that’s remarkably like Bruce’s though cut longer. He lets his bangs flop in his face rakishly, rather than pushed back as Bruce does. He’s got a swimmer’s body, long and lean with broad shoulders. His chin is missing Bruce’s cleft; his nose thinner, but the way his features sit are just as patrician as his father. His piercing blue eyes are somehow warmer than Bruce’s hazel, but they hold the same intensity and sharpness. He sees a lingering bruise around one eye, a small cut on his lip. It might have been an injury from his day job, but Clark suspects its related to a different patrol. They’re not related by blood – as if the last name hadn’t been enough of a clue – but he can see now that he knows what to look for, that Dick is son not only of Bruce Wayne, but the son of the Batman. 

He remembers in his initial research into The Bat of Gotham that for some time there had been rumors of a smaller partner, one dressed in red and gold and black. Some suspected The Bat had had a Batgirl in his life, but Clark thinks a small teen boy could have easily been mistaken for a thin woman in Gotham’s dark night. Funny how he hadn’t come across anything relating to Bruce Wayne having a kid.

“It’s an honor,” Clark says, and he means it.

Just then, something comes up behind him and knocks him in the legs. He’d been so intrigued by Dick, he hadn’t been listening to the other sounds of the party. He stumbles, tilting into Bruce, to avoid hurting whatever has hit him.

Several things happen at once. Two voices call out, respectively, “Barbara!” and “Babs!” in scolding, amused tones. The first belongs to Gordon, the second to Dick. He also notices Bruce taking advantage of the shove – one he could easily have sidestepped or controlled given his reflexes – and falling into Dent who seems to catch him, even as Bruce ends up pushing them into the wall behind them. He catches a forlorn look on Harvey’s good side, a wince from his bad. 

He also sees the black bit of plastic in Bruce’s hand that manages to connect with a cell phone in Dent’s pocket. As he’s turning to whatever hit him from behind, he sees Bruce slide back up straight and smooth down Harvey’s lapels, apparently righting him, apologizing for the bumble, and if his hands linger a nanosecond longer than is necessary, well, it’s none of Clark’s business. Bruce knows what he’s doing.

When he fully turns, he’s greeted with a seemingly innocent but entirely cheeky grin from a deep redhead in a purple gown. It was her wheelchair that bumped into him.

“Hi, sorry about that. Sometimes, I’m just so clumsy still.” Her green eyes shine with laughter.

“Barbara,” Gordon scolds again.

Dick is maintaining his mirth to his eyes, even as he says, “It’s been five years, darling.”

“You know I was never the athletic type, Dick,” the woman says.

If anything, Dick seems more amused. “You were a cheerleader, babe.”

The woman – Barbara – simply shrugs. She’s grinning though, and it lights up her face, taking her from pretty to stunning.

The commissioner is hanging his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Without looking up, he says, “Mr. Kent. I apologize but the woman who just bumped into you is my daughter, Barbara.”

Clark looks back down at her, reaching for her extended hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Gordon.” Her grip is quite strong.

“Mr. Kent, a pleasure. I’ve heard a _lot_ about you.”

The way she emphasizes it, her wink, the way her left hand is subtly signing a ‘s’ hints that this is someone else who knows his true identity. He casts a glance over Bruce, Dick, and Barbara. Hmm. Bruce brought him back from the dead months ago and he is just finding out there’s an entire Bat family? What happened to the loner Bat of Gotham? He doesn’t know if he should be flattered that he’s getting to meet them at all, or if he should be offended he hasn’t know before now. He wonders if Diana has met them.

“Given I’m not sure where from,” he says, casting a sly glance at Bruce, “I’m hoping it isn’t all bad.”

“Not bad at all.”

He catches Bruce glaring at Barbara who smiles toothily at him.

“Well, I suppose we should be leaving, Babs. Bludhaven crime doesn’t sleep and you still have work in the morning,” Dick says, moving to her side. He shakes hands with Bruce who holds his other arm up, squeezing his shoulder.

“Be safe,” Clark hears muttered at subvocal levels.

“More the pity,” says Barbara. “I wanted to get drunk on the free champagne.”

“Barbara!” Gordon huffs, full parental exasperation on his face. “This is what I get for leaving your mother at home, isn’t it. I try to let her have her way and not have to be at one of these ‘stuffy events’ and you’re just taking up her slack in embarrassing me.”

“Love you, Dad!” she tosses over her shoulder as she and Dick leave, him maintaining the same pace as her, completely in sync as they leave the party. He’s not touching her, but it’s like they see nothing but each other, even as they navigate the crowd.

“Weird, right?” Gordon says to him. “Never thought a child of mine would end up marrying into the Wayne family.”

Bruce looks at the man sharply. Gordon waves a hand at him. “Don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything. But look at them and tell me they won’t one day make it official.”

Clark notices the miniscule softening around Bruce. He pastes on a large Brucie white smile, but Clark can see he’s genuinely content.

“Lovely as this little family gathering is,” finally speaks up Dent, Gotham accent sharp, “I still have business to attend to. Supporters to make. Commissioner. Wayne.”

Both men nod back at Harvey, Bruce’s lips pulled tight.

As if on cue, Silver returns, stepping into Bruce just as Harvey’s leaving. “Brucie, where have you been?” she pouts. “Marta and I grew positively bored when the young police officers had to return to the station.”

It’s as much an act as anything else that night and Clark’s head is reeling with the layers of falsehood and what it means that some truths were revealed in the shape of a dark-haired and blue-eyed cop and a redhead in a wheelchair – who’s been in that wheelchair for _five years_.

“Well,” Bruce says ostentatiously, slipping so easily back into the Brucie persona fully. “Since you’ve turned down my offer a second time, I’m afraid I shall be parting company with you here, Kent. But don’t say no too many times; I might start to listen.”

He and Silver go off with a smattering of laughter between them.

Mission accomplished, Clark supposes.

He’s surprised when a genial hand lands on his shoulder. “I’ve seen that look before.”

He turns to face the commissioner. “Look?” he asks for clarification.

“He’s a good guy. A little non-committal perhaps, when it comes to dating. Silver’s been a constant in his life, but they’re just friends. I don’t think he’s had a serious relationship since Selena. Of course, I don’t claim to know all the parts of his life; he’s a mystery, for sure. But I’ve known him since he was a scared boy sitting on a sidewalk clutching a handful of pearls. He’s, he’s a good man. He does his best. He raised that boy right. He’s always had a soft spot for orphans like him. It’s why I couldn’t ask for my daughter to be dating anyone else, despite scandals the tabloids love to allude to.

“He seems to like you, despite that obnoxious show he put on earlier at the buffet. I don’t know if he can give you what you want, though. Guard your heart, Kent, if you still can.”

He receives another paternal squeeze and Gordon begins to walk off, before turning around as he continues walking. “And have your partner call me!”


	4. Chapter 4

The morning after the morning post-GCPD Charity Ball has Clark wandering into his kitchen to see Lois already there, reading a newspaper. 

“Mornin’, Lo,” he mumbles on the way to the coffee machine. Amazing how the caffeine has no actual effect on him, yet he craves it as though it does. 

He turns, taking his first sip to see his fiancé staring at him with one thin brow raised. “Something you want to tell me, Clark?”

“Uh,” he considers the things he’s done lately and doesn’t find anything he failed to inform her of. He’d even mentioned Gotham’s commissioner’s willingness to do an interview for the sake of her company when she came to work briefly yesterday.

Lois smirks and hold up the front page of the newspaper she was reading. Or rather, the tabloid, _The Metropolis Sun_. And right there, in living color, is an image of Clark’s backside with a seemingly drunk Bruce Wayne whispering in his ear while his hand sits possessively on the small of Clark’s back. _Gotham Billionaire Slumming it with Metropolis Reporter?_ cries the headline.

Clark knows he’s turned beet red when Lois starts laughing at him.

“Batman have something he needed to share with the Man of Steel?” she asks, before biting into a bagel with blueberry cream cheese and pushing the other half towards him.

He wonders how to explain it. His hand creeps up to the back of his neck where he rubs it, then drops his hand again. He shuffles his feet, struggling for words.

“Honey. Are you, are you embarrassed?”

“Kinda?” he says. Clark plops down at the table, head in his hands while he stares at the purple of the cream cheese. “I mean, it’s not what it looks like. But it’s not, _not_?”

“Alright. Explain,” she prompts, taking another healthy bite of her food. She doesn’t look upset or judgmental at all, only curious.

“Well, Batman, er, Bruce, seems to think that Bruce Wayne has his eyes on Clark Kent?”

“Has his eyes on…” she trails off and her eyes narrow. “Like before? Like he doesn’t trust—”

“No, no,” he assures her. He picks up his coffee cup again. “More like, Wayne has decided Kent is interesting. Challenging? Attractive, I guess. He says it’s a good cover.”

Lois stares at him, her light green eyes regarding him seriously. She takes a sip of her own coffee, drawing out her assessment until Clark is nearly, literally, on the edge of his seat.

“You’re saying that Bruce Wayne has decided Clark Kent, reporter and former farm boy, is someone he should pursue.”

“Yes?“ he hedges. “Honestly, it’s all very confusing. I just kind of went with it? I mean why Bruce would choose to flirt with me at his parties. He’s surrounded by so many beautiful women, rich women. Men, too, if that was his goal.”

She lays a hand on his arm across the table. “I know humble is both part of your act and even yourself, but you know you’re attractive, dear. I don’t think it’s looks that should make you wonder.” She purses her lips in thought. “I…do you think he’s lonely? We both know Brucie isn’t real. Maybe he got tired of faking it for everyone and you, you’re safe. He can keep up the front but gets to talk to someone who knows the real him, too.”

Clark shrugs. “Anyway, that’s why the.” He gestures to the image. “I’m sure it won’t happen again. ‘Brucie’ always moves on quickly.”

“Hmm,” is Lois’ only response before she finishes shoving the bagel in her mouth and dusting imagined crumbs from her lap. After pouring herself another cup of coffee and dumping in three packets of sugar, she taps her watch. “You’ve got five minutes, or we’ll miss the subway.”

Clark starts and downs the rest of his cup. He hadn’t realized he’d slept so late. In only three minutes, he is showered, dressed, and they are walking out the door. The whole time, he wonders what Lois is thinking about. She doesn’t even notice him trying to hold her hand.

Once at work, he finds it hard to concentrate on any of the stories he’s been outlining. He’s still waiting on a report to come back from the forensic accountant he’s using for the LexCorp financials – in the past couple of months, it’s something he’d have asked Bruce to do, but given their history with LexCorp and the conflict of interest with Wayne Corp, he’d decided it was better to outsource. However, it was taking much longer than it would have for Bruce and the terminal.

He finds himself digging into Bruce Wayne again, this time more in depth. He eventually finds a series of articles from _The Gotham Gazette_ archives that claim: _Flying Graysons Killed in Circus Mishap_ , _Wayne Takes on Ward_ , _Billionaire Adopts Young Orphaned Boy_ , and _Wayne Sues Circus for Improper Safety_. 

He spends an hour reading about the tragic murder of Dick’s parents when he was only nine – a murder that he’s only able to confirm is a murder by reading in between the lines. All of the journalism on the event speaks to an accident – a weakened flying trapeze, the netting below made of subpar plastic threads. The only thing that suggests something beyond an accident is the constant reference to Tony Zucco, a man who Clark figures out was a mobster extorting his various clients, including the Haly Circus, which refused to pay protection fees. Digging through court documents allows Clark to realize that Bruce didn’t sue the circus, but rather, through several proxies and complicated legalese, he was able to sue Zucco himself, and the Gotham mob he’d worked for at that time. With further prodding, he discovers all the money Bruce won in court was set into a trust for Dick.

For about a year, newspapers reported on the relationship between Wayne and his new ward before petering out when Dick fails to join Bruce on any of his extreme adventures or the parties he attended. This lack of coverage is replaced by some pretty disgusting internet conspiracy blogs that suggest Wayne bought himself an underage boy for his own pedophile interests. When Dick turns eighteen and has a birthday party at the Manor – apparently before it was burned down – there’s a brief uptick in press interest, this time mostly from tabloids, but when he doesn’t turn into a mini Bruce Wayne-like paparazzi darling who flaunts his wealth and status, they quickly lose interest again.

It explains why in his cursory search for playboy Bruce Wayne articles, he hadn’t turned up the connection between Bruce and Richard. The press stopped reporting on him around 2008, though he does find a more recent blog entitled _ohnotheydidntdickg_ that appears to have stopped posting in 2012 – the year of the Joker attack.

One final search determines that Zucco was turned into the GCPD in 2004 where he admitted to a long string of crimes, including the murder of the Graysons. The article alludes to a mysterious masked man depositing the man in then-Chief of Police Jim Gordon’s office. The lead is buried so far in the _Gazette_ , it’s no wonder no one associated Wayne’s ward’s parents being murdered to Wayne’s own tragedy or reported on it further.

Clark rubs his hands over his face. He looks up to ask Lois what she wants to do for lunch and finds her, instead of at her desk next to him, holed up in Perry’s office on the landing. He suspects they’re discussing the content or financials of her trip to Qatar.

Left to his own devices and without a cry for help tugging him away, he finds himself climbing the stairs to the roof of _The Daily Planet_ anyway, bypassing the restaurant on the top floor, to fling himself into the sky, soaking in the sun and the voices around the world. He lets them creep into his consciousness, everything from an old man on his deathbed in Japan to a little girl laughing with her brother as they play hide-and-seek with their mother in Ecuador.

His own mother is puttering around the kitchen, doing some cleaning before she begins to prepare lunch, an hour behind Metropolis time. She steps outside to the porch and begins to husk corn and he notices that the house has been repainted, that the porch is no longer sagging under the weight of the swing.

The realization has him turning his attention to Gotham, to the man who is no doubt responsible. He closes his eyes and listens for Bruce’s heartbeat. He’s in a meeting, speaking with his CEO Lucius Fox about the blueprints for some form of green energy source. Clark is smart, but he’s not an engineer and the specifics wash over him like pleasant white noise, but he gathers it’s got something to do with the Mother Box Victor let him keep after they defeated Steppenwolf.

The meeting finishes quickly after he’s tuned in and he follows Bruce out to a car, this one a black sports car that looks like it should be on a racetrack with its low-slung frame and neon blue lights, apparently going out for lunch. While he’s driving, he loosens his tie and undoes a couple of buttons at the top. 

Clark is surprised when Bruce wanders into a small, if upscale, Italian restaurant and sits down with…Harvey Dent. He watches as the two men order; a white and the fish for Harvey, a red and steak for Bruce. They chat, seemingly amicable, though he doesn’t listen in – Batman would scold him for this level of spying already, even if Clark knows Bruce has his phone tapped and the League communicators are fitted with WayneTech GPS.

He watches as Bruce begins his courtship dance. His smile is more sincere than at various celebrity events, no doubt because Harvey knows Bruce better than most and isn’t fooled by the usual charade, but it’s still over-exaggerated, something about it more calculated than the minor smirks the League gets when Bruce thinks something genuinely amusing has occurred. He leans forward, inviting Dent into his space, and their knees knock under the table, a choreographed move that seems innocent. He twirls his wine glass and looks up at Dent through long dark eyelashes, flirtation as obvious as the Gotham night is dark.

Bruce’s heartbeat remains constant, confident in his act. Harvey’s though, when Clark listens, rises and races quicker with each point he makes, with each additional affectation Bruce applies to reel in his catch. Clark can’t tell if Dent’s interest is sexual in nature or the result of his own attempt to bring in a big fish for the campaign, the belief that maybe he’s brought liberal Bruce Wayne around to his side. 

The crackle of fire, the smell of cigarette smoke, and the sound of teenage laughter has Clark dashing off to the California forest to stop a wildfire before it starts, launching into a lecture as cheesy as Smoky the Bear’s about prevention, but hopefully more effective. By the time he’s done and hovering over Gotham, Bruce and Dent are parting ways and he notices the tilt of Bruce’s hips, open to Dent and for once, he can’t tell if it’s an honest inclination or another part of his routine; all he knows is a stabbing sense of jealousy that he quickly squashes because _what the hell Clark, weren’t you sad this morning when Lois avoided holding your hand?_

He’s beginning to regret this cover of Bruce’s. Not that it’s Bruce’s fault Clark is suddenly – maybe not _so_ suddenly – a mess of conflicted feelings and some amount of lust for a man who has more often than not made it clear Clark is unwanted, unnecessary, even as he once told him the League needed him.

He finds himself crossing his arms defensively, pointlessly, a mile above Batman’s city. He’s about to depart when he catches Dent’s voice speaking a name of interest. He’s no longer speaking to Bruce, so he feels no compunction about listening in. 

“Edge.”

Clark floats down from the atmosphere, touching down on a nearby rooftop.

“Yes, I just spoke with him. He seems to be coming around.”

A pause.

“I know he’s not going to stop supporting Gotham as a sanctuary city. He’s too much of a bleeding heart.”

Dent sounds vaguely amused, almost fond when he calls Bruce a bleeding heart.

“No, I don’t think it’s all bad, Edge. I think I got him around on your pet project today. You know he has pull with the city council.”

In an instant, his demeanor changes, his expression down right contemptuous. His fiddles in his pants pocket and pulls out a coin. Clark squints and sees it’s a British pound, the Queen’s face on one side – the other side, though, the royal crest is obscured almost completely, a large ‘x’ scratched atop other marks.

“Edge, I want you to listen to me very closely. For the moment, our interests align. I…appreciate your support. But the moment I sense a betrayal or a significant divergence in what we want, we’re done. You just make sure the Bat doesn’t figure out what we’re doing.”

He pauses, long enough to watch his coin flip in the air, a solemn look on one half of his face, the scarred side projecting a grimace Clark could see without super vision. It lands on his reddened, pockmarked hand: heads up.

“I’ll handle Wayne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: [Bruce's car](http://tinypic.com/m/k323v7/3)


	5. Chapter 5

The next time Clark and Bruce meet, it’s an hour before the mayoral debate. They’ll both be there in civilian clothing when it starts, but for now, Batman and Superman are watching from a rooftop of a nearby hotel overlooking the Pantages Theatre where the debate will be held. The sun is only now slipping below the metal and stone skyscrapers; its light will be above the horizon for some time still on this hot August night.

“You’ve checked again?” Batman asks.

“Yes, Br-B,” Superman says, rolling his eyes. “The pipes might be lead, but everything about the theater is secure. The only device was the one under Garcia’s podium. I’ve x-rayed it three times now.”

“B,” the other man almost asks, toneless.

Superman shrugs. “Shorter. Easier. I’m less likely to commit your deemed original sin of names on the comms. Not that it bothers Diana.”

“There are many Diana’s in the world.”

“There are a lot of Bruce’s in Gotham,” he points out, receiving a growl in return.

“None who get accused of either dating or being Batman so often as myself.”

He laughs at first, then realizes Bruce isn’t making a joke. “Wait. You’re telling me someone has put forth the theory that Bruce Wayne is dating the Bat? How? Why? And is it anywhere other than Reddit?”

“4Chan. Tumblr. In the 2000’s, it was the most discussed theory surrounding the Bat.”

A crack of a smirk appears on his face. “For a while, even Gordon bought into it. He constantly asked me if I needed to tell him anything. If my boyfriend was hurting me.”

Clark gapes at him. “I kind of thought he knew…?”

“He does. There was too much in the…the aftermath. With Barbara. But before that, he knew us separately. He knew Bruce as the spoiled brat who casually threw himself at anyone who walked by, who partied too hard and got hurt doing Jackass-style stunts, who was broken because of the death of his parents when he was ten. And the Bat, well Gordon was there when he was broken by a man named Bane. He never once took my cowl. He always asked, but he never took, even at Batman’s weakest.”

This is all said in a voice devoid of emotion, but the raw truth of it shocks Clark to his core. He guesses Bruce sees Gordon nearly as much a father figure as he does Alfred. 

“He chooses not to know now, most of the time. It makes his life as commissioner easier. Probably makes Barbara dating Dick easier, too.”

There’s a pause. Clark thinks.

“Why now?”

There’s another pause, but it’s not uncomfortable. 

When he answers, Bruce doesn’t pretend not to know what Clark is referring to. “I spent over a year working to kill you. Then I mourned you with the world for almost a year. I’ve known an alien. I’ve come to know a man raised on a farm, a journalist. I know your mother. I don’t, I don’t know _you_.”

And yet. He’d done it anyway. Maybe it was the confluence of events, Bruce and Clark being at the GCPD Benefit, his son being a police officer, Gordon as commissioner. Certainly Barbara helped execute the plan – planned or not. 

But Bruce could have found another way to clone Dent’s phone. Could have done it by himself, maybe even that day they’d had lunch. He could have asked Clark to do it by himself, cornering the candidate with questions. 

_I don’t_ not.

“I’d like for you to get to know me, B. I’d like to be your friend.” He keeps his posture open, wanting to extend his hand to the cold shoulder in front of him, but he restrains the impulse this time.

Is it Clark’s imagination or does Bruce’s mouth turn down?

More silence. Eventually, he gets a sharp nod. Then, “It’s time to go. Bruce Wayne can be fashionably late, but Clark Kent can’t.”

He waits for a moment, but Batman lets a grapple fly and disappears from his normal vision in the span of thirty seconds. He sighs and floats down behind the theater once he’s checked it is clear of crew or anyone taking a last-minute smoke break. He changes and walks around to the front in enough time to see the mayoral candidates pull up in their matching limos that are immediately swarmed by security as the two men glad-hand their way into the building. Clark scans the men, the other reporters, the hired security. Everyone comes up clean. The two men enter the building and separate to opposite sides of the stage, going to their own green rooms to prepare.

The crowds begin to enter the theater and press is brought to the press pit. They’ll watch the show from a large TV, just like the viewers at home, but speaking directly with the candidate’s spin teams. There’s a room shut off from both the audience and the press; this is the focus group that Galaxy MediaCorp will air during the debate for ‘real time’ response. 

Only a few additional press members are allowed into the auditorium aside from Galaxy’s own. Bruce had made sure Clark was one of them, despite being from a competing company and another town’s media. He settles into the worn red chair, looking up at the grandness of the theater. He scans the building once more, seeing nothing unusual. He finds Bruce sitting in a VIP opera box on stage left. He refuses to let himself stare at the way his bangs are pressed a little closer to his head, a little more casual tonight because he’d had the cowl on only twenty minutes before.

The debate starts a mere ten minutes late.

“Good evening, Gotham. From the Pantages Theatre, I’m Vicki Vale, anchor of The Scene, Galaxy’s morning news show. I want to welcome you to the first mayoral debate. The participants tonight are Harvey Dent, long-time Gotham District Attorney and Anthony Garcia, long-time activist and local businessman. The rules have been agreed to by the campaigns. The debate will be ninety minutes, divided into four segments: securing Gotham, infrastructure, achieving economic prosperity, and democratic norms.”

Clark winces. There is some irony in Dent’s campaign agreeing to a discussion of democracy given his and Edge’s attempts to subvert it.

Vicki continues, bright white teeth flashing, standing out sharply against her strawberry blonde hair and immaculate makeup. “At the start of each segment, I will ask both candidates the same question and they will each have two minutes to respond. From that point, there will be a ninety second response from each candidate to the other’s response. This will occur four times each segment. Finally, at the end, we will take questions from Twitter and Facebook users who will be sending in tweets via ‘hashtag Gotham mayoral 2017’ or responding to the live feed on Facebook.

“No one from the campaigns has seen these questions ahead of time. The audience has agreed to refrain from applauding until the end. Except in this moment, when we welcome the candidates on stage. Anthony Garcia and Harvey Dent!”

Cheers and whistles rise from the crowd including various hoots for Dent or Garcia.

The debate proceeds as stated with both candidates speaking articulately and with measured responses. During the initial segment, Dent makes his proposal for turning Arkham into a prison. It’s met with one generous boo from the audience though everyone else was already shifting in awkward silence. Clark can see security looking for the cat-caller, but Clark suspects only he and the people directly around the woman know who made it. No one is apprehended.

It's during the third segment, after a ten-minute break that something changes. There’s a different taste to the air, metal and salt. Iron. Something else.

Garcia begins his proposal for rehabilitating Stevensburgh and the same 3D model Clark had seen on the terminal is blow up on the projector behind the candidates. There’s some excited murmurs through the crowd, though all Vicki has to do is shoot a harsh glare at them and they quiet down.

Then it’s there again, that strange tension and he’s just about to turn around, to scan the crowd, maybe catch Bruce’s eye when—

“For Garcia! Viva la revolution!!” shouts a voice and then the theater erupts with gunfire.

That was the smell, the one he couldn’t place; gunpowder. 

He looks around frantically, trying to push the people around him down out of their seats, even as he keeps an eye out for the shooters, or for Bruce or Batman. He glances back around at the stage and meets Vicki’s terrified eyes from where she is hiding underneath her desk, still exposed to any shooter.

He grabs for her and tugs her down off the stage. She leaves a shoe behind but is gibbering thanks as he pushes her further down into the orchestra pit he’s managed to ‘accidentally’ punch a hole through near where they’d been seated. The other press members help her down. He stands up again and that’s when he sees the bullet coming at him, one meant for Dent.

He stands, dumfounded for a nanosecond, torn as to whether Clark Kent should get shot and fall or if he dares risk someone seeing Kent take a bullet and not go down. But he can’t let the man be assassinated.

His decision becomes obsolete when Batman lands in front of him, holding up his arms in a pose he has learned from Diana. The shock is absorbed by his suit and the bullet doesn’t ricochet but rather falls harmlessly to the ground.

It’s only because Clark is who he is that he’s able to take the grace of Batman in. One minute Bruce is standing, deflecting a bullet with the armor on his forearm, the next, he’s spinning his cape in such a way that it blocks all viewpoints from the emergency exit door that’s a mere five feet from them. His cape swirls as wild yet purposeful as a flamenco dancer’s shawl and his eyes meet Clark’s in mid-turn, dark and laser-focused. “Go,” he whispers, subvocalizing below what his modulator can pick up and broadcast, but loud enough for Clark. He waits so long the cape has nearly completed its flare, entranced by the dark beauty of the Bat.

With a burst of super speed though, he’s out the side exit with no one the wiser that Clark Kent is no longer in the building. Superman slams through the backstage door and swoops up both candidates, one in each arm, blocking another bullet this time with his body, eyes picking out Batman swinging from the catwalk to apprehend one of the would-be assassins, before flying back out of the building. He drops both startled men off in front of Gotham City Hall where the commissioner is staring at him with a slightly confused but amused smile under his bushy mustache.

“Commissioner,” Superman says, nodding to the man. “You’ll be safe here,” he says to the men who are both swiping at hair and tugging at hems to look less windblown.

“Doing the Bat a favor?” Gordon says.

“Democracy,” he responds, knowing how ridiculous it sounds, but it’s true and something Superman is expected to say.

Gordon guffaws, but gestures Dent and Garcia into the building as he does. Superman takes off, but he catches a “thank you,” from Garcia as he flies back to the theater.

By the time he’s returned – a mere two minutes – Batman has three would-be assassins dangling from the catwalks, wrapped up in grapple line, arms pinned, guns collected on the ground beneath them.

“Take care of the civilians,” Batman rasps. He nods.

Clark empties the theater first, triple scanning everyone to ensure there are no more hidden assassins. Eventually, he’s able to go back and walk the press who he’d pushed into the pit up through the right stage green room and out into light. They cling to him in various states of disarray. Vicki is the first to speak, taking off her other shoe so that she’s less lopsided.

“Thank you, Superman. I wasn’t expecting you. But thank you.”

Her comments are followed up by others and he stands and nods benevolently, as Superman must. He assures them it was “no trouble” and then he rises off the ground, confident Batman has it handled. GCPD are pulling up as he flies away.

He doesn’t go back towards Metropolis, though. He takes some time to float in the sky, taking in the neon lights of Gotham and their reflection in the glass towers of Metropolis across the bay.

Eventually he descends just outside the lake entrance to the cave. It opens for him, a yawning maw of a waterfall that soaks him through, though he shakes it off before making it to the main level of the cave. Batman is waiting for him and shoves a can of Coke at him with a grunt, before downing his own bottle of water in what seems like one gulp.

Clark marvels at the breath control the man has.

After several minutes of companionable silence, Bruce speaks. “I knew.”

“I figured,” Clark says, taking a small sip of the sickeningly sweet drink. His body likes the sugar rush. How did Bruce know? About the pop, that is.

“It was rumors on the dark web. My consultant sent me the tip. Someone was claiming to pay three million dollars for whoever took out Dent at the debate. The way they asked it, it was meant to encourage Garcia supporters, whether Gothamites or not. Anyone who sympathized.”

Bruce pauses. “Here’s the thing, though. My consultant tracked that initial post and it was created in an internet café in National City. Now who might be posting an assassination request on a Gotham citizen from NC?”

“You think Edge.”

“Or one of his team,” Bruce nods. “There’s no video from the café and I didn’t see Edge on any of the security tapes around the block. But he has people I don’t know.”

“When did you know?” he asks, suddenly tired that even in this, Bruce still won’t trust him with information.

“Three days ago.”

“And when you asked me to scan again…”

“I was hoping you’d pick up some trace of them. A gun. Something. They must have come in during the intermission, though. I found two security guards knocked over the head and tied up in the soundbooth.

“I don’t think the goal was to actually kill Dent, though. I think all the responses to the ad, down to the yell before the shooting began, were manufactured. It makes Dent come out like a saint, someone strong in his convictions and maybe right that crime is so bad, if someone tried to kill him. It makes Garcia appear to have crazed, radical supporters. Dent’s poll numbers have already gone up and the event stopped streaming less than two hours ago. FOX News has started calling Garcia’s followers terrorists, conflating his Colombian skin with that of jihadists in the Middle East.”

Clark nods again. He’s hovering slightly, too tired to rest his weight on his feet; flying is easier, ironically.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally asks.

They sit in silence, this time tense. 

Eventually Bruce taps his lips with a finger and looks up at Clark. His eyes are more chestnut than hazel in this moment. He looks as tired as Clark feels. “I don’t have a good answer for you.”

Clark stares at him and Bruce stares back. It might be the most honest thing he’s said. Ever, to Clark at least. Bruce has stripped himself of all artifice in this moment; his eyes show a nakedness more obscene than if he were sitting there, dick out.

_I don’t_ not _like you_.

Yet another nod. He’s beginning to feel like a bobblehead.

“Good night, Bruce,” he says before flying back out the cave.

He’s halfway to Metropolis when he hears a whispered, “Goodnight, Clark.” 

He doesn’t know if he was supposed to hear it or not.


	6. Chapter 6

Two weeks later, Perry is yelling at him from his office. “Kent! Come here! Please.” He adds the last part as an after-thought.

Of course, the whole bullpen’s eyes turn to Clark as he begins what feels like a walk of shame up the steps.

“Kent, this was delivered to you. I don’t know how you managed one of the most exclusive invites of the year but suffice to say – you’re going.”

“Sir?” Clark asks, having no idea what Perry could be taking about.

“The Gotham Children’s Hospital Gala. It’s financed by the Wayne Foundation. You have here a special invite. It’s not a press pass; it’s a personal invitation.”

Perry holds up two envelopes; one is white with black embossed calligraphy and reads _Perry White – The Daily Planet Editor-in-Chief, Press_ while the other is matte black with gold embossing that reads simply _Mr. Clark Kent_. He hands the black one to Clark.

“I don’t know why you got a personal invite here instead of your own mailbox – I thought you two were closer than that.”

“Perry,” Clark says, blushing. “I didn’t expect you to believe—”

“No, Kent, I don’t believe that TMZ-sponsored trash rag. Nonetheless, Wayne is making a statement. You’re going. And if Wayne doesn’t think you’ll be there as a reporter, just because he sent a black envelope, he’s got another thing coming. I want everything you hear that night to be considered on the record.”

Clark blinks, then nods his head.

“Now,” Perry continues, and this time, he grips Clark’s elbow to bring him inside the office, shutting the door. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“The gala?” Clark asks, confused.

“You and Lois. Your breakup.” Perry has adopted a parental look of concern that leaves Clark feeling as stunned as his comment.

“Lois and I aren’t broken up, sir.” He adjusts his glasses for something to do with his hands and nerves.

“So, you’re seeing Wayne behind her back?” Perry puffs up a bit, his parental concern passing easily onto Lois. 

“Perry. I am not _seeing_ Bruce Wayne. Lois still has a ring on her finger, I still love her, and I cannot help Bruce Wayne’s interactions toward me. Sir.” Clark states emphatically, head reeling from the thought that Perry thought Clark could _cheat_ on Lois. That _Bruce Wayne_ would actually date a mild-mannered reporter. That they were even having this conversation.

Perry levels a heavy stare at him that reminds Clark of Ma’s: steely-eyed and trying to decide if he is lying. Eventually, he must see something that satisfies him because his shoulders relax, and he pats Clark awkwardly on the shoulder. 

“Well, good.”

“Is there…is there anything else, Mr. White?”

“Yes. Go write me an article.”

“Yes, sir,” Clark says, glancing out the window of the office and noticing everyone’s gotten bored with the drama unfolding in the office and gone back to work – except Lois who is looking right at him. He puts his hand on the door handle.

“Kent,” Perry says, abruptly. “I just. I want you to know, if you two do break up. Well. Provided its mutual, I’m here for you both.”

Clark pauses, analyzing that. He honestly doesn’t know how to respond. Perry did just say _if_ , but this concern, the mention of a break up twice in one conversation – he’s beginning to wonder whether Perry knows something he doesn’t.

His own misplaced attraction to Bruce, aside.

“Uh, thank you, sir? Thank you,” he mutters, slumping his shoulders as Perry turns away with obvious embarrassment as well, and Clark hightails it out of the office.

Lois, of course, can’t let it go and is by his side at his cubicle immediately. “What was that about?” she asks, sitting on the edge of his desk with arms crossed, leaning in close enough that even without his senses, Clark could smell her light floral perfume.

Interestingly enough, she seems less interested in him, and more in what he’s holding. He lets her pluck the black envelope out of his fingers.

Her eyebrows raise in surprise as she looks it over. She lets out a low whistle when she eyes the return.

“Can I?” she asks, noting that he hasn’t opened it yet. He nods and she starts to open it, then holds it out for him. He takes the hint and lets out a breath that steams open the letter, allowing it to open without a rip.

“You are cordially invited to…attend on the fifteenth of September…black tie…” Lois mutters as she quickly scans it. She hands it back. “Interesting that he chose a personal invite, but at least he didn’t send roses, too. Though, with the way the others are gawking,” here she raises her voice and Clark suddenly hears the flurry of several feet skittering away as Lois chastises them, “you’d think he dropped it off with a ring.”

“I don’t know why, Lois—”

“What did Perry say?” she asks.

“That black envelope or not, I was there as press.”

She nods. “I’m sure he only did it because he’s got schemes within schemes and his current one involves you. But it’s still kind of nice?”

He blinks at her. “Nice?”

“It’s not like everyone who gets black envelopes are there as his date or anything. All the wealthy donors get the personal invites, too. Same with the hospital staff. But you’ll have better access than I will that night. You’ll get to hear conversations I won’t.” She pauses and taps her ear. “Not like you wouldn’t anyway, but still.”

“I’m sure it’s part of our research into Dent and Edge.”

“Probably is.” She stands up. “However, it still means we’re going to have to get you a real tux. None of this off-the-rack stuff. This is one of the most exclusive parties in Gotham, on the entire east coast, frankly, and I won’t let you go there, _personally invited_ , in something from Macy’s. It’ll be rented, but it’ll be fitted.”

“Lois, I—”

“Ah-ah, Smallville. A woman knows best.”

She saunters back to her desk and he heaves a sigh. It wasn’t even that Lois liked shopping; she simply likes making him feel uncomfortable.

Apparently, she and Bruce have that in common.


	7. Chapter 7

Superman descends on the same roof where Batman is perched the next night.

“What are you doing here,” Batman growls. Less of a question, more of a warning.

“Just, ‘dropping in,’” he says, channeling Barry. Actually, he misses that kid; he hasn’t seen him in over a month. 

“Superman. I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy, B.”

They fall into silence for some time, Clark watching Batman work. He’s preternaturally still, a hunter watching its prey go about its business, enjoying the art of the chase. If anyone looked up, they’d see only another gargoyle; even his cape is still, despite the inevitable wind that happens at this height. The sole thing that moves is his eyes. They dart across the bay, taking in every single cargo crate, all the possible points of entry and exit from his vantage point. There’s no one on the docks so he figures there’s a drop or shipment happening later, but Batman doesn’t want to miss it. 

He doesn’t even hear any chatter from Alfred; he wonders if the butler is out tonight.

For once, Clark wins, when Batman finally speaks again, twenty minutes later. “Did you want something, or did you just come to lurk?”

“Of course not,” he responds, “that’s your schtick.”

Batman’s silence is as pointed as any look.

“I received some interesting mail yesterday.” He pauses. “At the office.”

“This involves me, how?”

“It was from you. Well. Bruce Wayne. An invitation to your benefit?”

He gets a grunt in response. 

“I’m simply curious as to the address. You do know where I live.”

He can’t see it – he won’t look under the cowl – but he can sense Batman raising an eyebrow. “I do.”

“It was also apparently a special invitation. Perry called me out in front of the entire bullpen. It was…embarrassing. Everyone at The Planet now believes Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne are dating. Perry essentially asked me if I was _cheating_ on Lois.”

Batman finally turns to look at him. He remains in his crouched position, but he glances long enough to take in Superman’s pose: arms crossed, curl down on his forehead, hovering just above the rooftop, his cape shifting in the breeze silently. Then he turns back around.

“Clark,” Bruce admonishes gently. “I don’t oversee these things; I have people for that. I’m sorry if you were embarrassed. You don’t have to go. I won’t be hurt.”

Nothing gives him away, yet Clark is sure Bruce is lying to his face. To him, generally, he supposes, since Batman is actually staring intently at the docks.

“It seems…” he ponders his words. He wishes he could outright ask – _do you like me check yes, no, or never speak to me again_ – but Batman _and_ Bruce are opaque to him and he knows asking that question will get him nothing but dark silence. Complex miscommunication seems to be their thing. “Unnecessary. For the charade.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Clark says softly.

Just then, he senses a speedboat coming toward the bay from south of Metropolis; Bruce won’t have heard it yet. He figures the conversation is done, anyway. 

“There’s a boat coming in. It’s about one point five miles out.”

He waits to see if Bruce will acknowledge anything from him. He receives a nod, a simple recognition of Superman’s words. He continues to ignore Clark’s query.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” says Superman, flying away from the stoic Bat. Clark needs to rethink his strategy. He pushes down the feeling of rejection as he returns to Metropolis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 6 and 7 are pretty short, so have a double-dose this weekend. (Also, hey, we're halfway there in chapter terms, if not in word count.) Thanks again for all the wonderful comments! I'm reading each one and will respond eventually. <3


	8. Chapter 8

Clark flew slowly up to the house, landing at the end of the drive, in order to let Bruce – and the alarm system – recognize who it is. He walks to the front of the lake house, noticing that the Manor, while still gothic in architecture, is looking less like a haunted house on the moor. The League headquarters is coming along well. 

He rings the bell and almost instantly, it is opened by Alfred. Like he’s been waiting for Clark. He internally sighs. He’d hoped Bruce would be more open if it was Clark and Bruce speaking, rather than Superman and Batman.

“I don’t suppose Bruce is here?”

Clark, of course, could have looked, but still prefers not to invade Bruce’s privacy in his home. He’d have scanned and gone to the cave entrance had this been League business.

Alfred shakes his head, seemingly regretful, but Clark notes a sense of frustration underlying his polite manners. “Master Wayne has gone out for the evening. He has some business to attend to. Work-related, not his usual nighttime activities.”

Something related to Wayne Corp, then, rather than patrolling.

“However, he expected you might show up with the gala only a week away and has had this package prepared for you.”

Clark raises his eyebrows, accepting a garment bag that is heavy in the bottom and a small box that might have been big enough for a pair of earrings, had he been a woman. Or generally inclined to jewelry.

“He said, and I quote, ‘that should answer all his questions’.”

Clark eyes Alfred dubiously.

“I informed him it wasn’t likely to, but that’s Master Wayne for you. I recommend waiting until you return home to open it.”

Clark opens his mouth, and then closes it again. It seems any negotiation, including the usual offer of tea while he waits for Bruce to return from patrol, is off the table tonight.

“Thank you, Alfred,” he says instead, gently laying the garment bag over his arm and tucking the box into a pocket of his cape.

He walks down to the end of the drive and lifts off, feeling the weight of Alfred’s gaze through the lake house windows until he leaves Gotham air space.

When he returns to his apartment, managing a quick change on the roof of the building, he hangs the black bag over his closet door. He slowly unzips it.

The first thing he sees is a note from Bruce.

_C—_

_Alfred informs me I’ve been more of an ass than usual._  
I truly did not mean to embarrass you, though the mailing was purpose-driven.  
Please accept this small token as an apology. 

_—B_

_P.S. This is for you to_ keep _, Kent. Don’t you_ dare _try to sell it off for money to donate to needy children or something. I’ve already given a large donation in your name._

Clark laughs out loud at the postscript. He then glances at the clothing that hangs in the bag.

He pushes off the garment bag, standing back in awe.

The tux is a deep navy blue with black satin lapels, buttons, and bowtie. The black – he instinctively knows – is the same exact shade as his bulky Clark Kent glasses. The cut is such that it’s only going to show off Clark’s frame, rather than hide it, with a one button closure. There’s a crisp white shirt and in the bottom of the bag, he finds black leather modern dress shoes.

He knows, just from looking at it, it’s going to fit every curve and plane of his body perfectly. He flushes, wondering how Bruce had gotten such precise measurements.

He fingers the satin lapel, noting the extreme high quality of fabric. He peeks inside the jacket and finds a small Ralph Lauren tag.

To buy a bespoke designer suit like this…now he knows why Bruce wrote that last line. Clark can barely stand the thought of the money spent on him. It could probably take care of the Kent farm for three months or more.

Then again, Bruce already did that too. 

He finally opens the small box to discover a set of cufflinks. They are silver with small rotating blue globes. The continents are expertly painted on with golden longitude and latitude lines. They match the globe that shines atop the Daily Planet building.

They are remarkably sentimental for a man who claims he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.

Not that such romanticism would be directed at him if not for the current ‘cover’ Bruce has crafted. Not that he should want romance from Bruce. They were teammates. _Friends_ remains a stretch. He thinks the more times he tells himself that, he might come to believe it.

Clark twists one of the cufflinks around with his fingers as he sits on the bed, pondering the outfit. His thumbnail catches on a line of metal. He looks closer.

Tiny enough that no one would ever notice unless deliberately examining them as he currently is, is a bat engraved in each of the cuffs.

He drops them back into the box and falls back onto the bed, hands coming up to his face, palms pressing into his eye sockets. He tries to control his breathing as he imagines Bruce crafting these in his workshop, the same space he and Alfred made parts of the Batsuit armor, the same space he had once crafted a spear of destruction for Superman – and now he makes delicate brands of ownership.

He wonders, though, if the invitation was unnecessarily public, what does it mean that Bruce handcrafted Clark Kent’s cufflinks when no one will even know?

_“You’re playing with fire, son.”_

Clark sleeps fitfully that night, dreams ranging from generic horrors of the world burning to more specific hells where he fails to save Lois or Bruce or his Ma, even Victor, as they all burnt to ash, to one dream that has him waking up, sweaty and panting with desire that somehow involved Lois and Bruce and things that were impossible to do while flying. Refusing to touch his cock, he gets up and takes a cold shower. Mid-way through he hears the sounds of firetrucks and he flies to assist before returning to bed. The rest of his sleep is dreamless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: [Clark's suit](http://tinypic.com/m/k356w2/3), [Clark's cufflinks](http://tinypic.com/m/k356r4/3)


	9. Chapter 9

Perry’s rented a limousine for the three of them to the gala, keeping Clark sharp on the whole ‘I don’t care if you were personally invited, you’re a reporter, Kent’ thing. It picked them up separately and Clark’s breath was taken away when he saw Lois. Her dress is an icy blue with a vee neck made of tulle that flows down into layers of tulle, giving it a princess vibe. The dress is covered in silver beading. Her copper hair is pulled into an elegant French twist, her light eyes sparkling so that they almost appear as blue as the gown instead of their usual green.

His heart aches. Why hadn’t they gotten ready together again? He wishes he’d been the one to place the delicate diamonds around her pale neck.

“You ready?” she asks, smiling at him once they’re both situated on the bench seat. “You clean up good, Smallville. Where’d you get the tux, anyway? We never did go shopping.”

He looks down, seemingly absorbed by the fine embroidery on her dress. “A friend.”

She glances sideways at Perry who looks like a member of the Rat Pack in a classic black tux, cigar in one hand, scotch in the other. He’s chatting with the driver as they enter the interstate to get to the Metro-Narrows Bridge and cross into Gotham.

“I don’t suppose this ‘friend’s’ name rhymes with Druce Bane,” she asks, quietly.

He grimaces, though it’s more because of the bad name than anything else.

She reaches out, fiddles with his lapel, fingers the black pocket square. “Bespoke.”

He doesn’t know what to say.

She sighs. “Relax, Clark. If he wants to treat you like a sugar baby, who am I to object? At least you don’t have to return it.” She pouts down at her own dress, fingering the netting. “I’m glad Cat knows so many designers who are willing to dress for less notable events than the Emmy’s or Cannes.”

That causes him to flinch. He’s nearly forgotten Cat will be there tonight, too. The only reason she wasn’t in the limo with them was because her date insisted on picking her up. He knows she’ll be curious about his sudden transformation, though. She’s already been teasing him about the invitation direct from Bruce Wayne, prodding him for her gossip column. If Lois is alluding to him having a sugar daddy, he knows Cat won’t only allude, but _accuse_.

They fall into pleasant conversation as the ride continues, traffic slow across the bridge as it is rush hour, members of one city or the other returning to their home town. Perry’s eyes are watchful on them, seeming to take in how close they’re sitting, each time they brush hands but don’t hold on, though not for lack of trying on Clark’s part. Lois’ hand just seems to be busy every time he tries; busy with a glass of champagne, busy adjusting her dress, her earrings, flicking his curl back into place, adjusting his glasses, looking through her clutch.

_“So, you’re seeing Wayne behind her back?”_

He bites his lip and forces himself to tune out Perry’s curious gaze, to focus on Lois. 

“Sir,” she asks, abruptly. “Will your son be there?” She turns to Clark. “Perry’s son, Richard, works for The National City Times.”

Clark starts. He hadn’t known Perry had a child, much less a son who was also a reporter. There seems to be a lot of surprise – to him – kids going around.

“Mmm, indeed. Richard’s flight arrived about an hour ago. He said he’d meet me there.”

“It’ll be good to catch up,” she says. “I’ve been reading his recent articles on the mayoral election. Clark, you might get along with him. Especially given the topic you’re both covering.”

He nods and makes a mental note to look the man up as soon as possible. He wonders why Lois hasn’t mentioned him – or his perpendicular topic to Clark’s case he’s working with Batman on.

They arrive at six-thirty sharp at The Met, where the Hospital Gala is held each year, and pull up in the line studded with other limos, Aston Martins, Lamborghinis, and Rolls Royces. Cocktails begin at seven, dinner at eight, and the event is planned through to midnight, with the promise of afterparties, including one in the Wayne penthouse for only the most generous donors.

They pass through the lines of press and tabloid reporters who line the red carpet. Clark lets Lois lead; she fits in as well as a movie star. She’s not bashful at all, turning this way and that for the photographers, taking to the treatment like a fish to water. He smiles at her fondly. 

Once they’re inside, they see Cat across the room, blonde hair pulled tight, resplendent in a skin-tight red gown and is that—? He looks again, and it is indeed James Fischer, owner of Gotham’s own Galaxy MediaCorp. They’re surrounded by an entourage nearly as large as Brucie Wayne’s tends to be.

He and Lois exchange significant looks.

“I’m going to go say hello,” she says, going on her toes as he leans down for a kiss on the cheek. She and Perry make their way over, but Clark has had enough of meet and greets, thank you. Cat catches his eye, though, and he sees her shark grin as she takes in his suit. She flashes him a thumbs up and a wink.

Yup. That’s exactly why he will do his best to avoid his Planet coworker tonight.

He spends the next ten minutes nodding at a few people he knows and watching the rest of the guests enter through the large oak doors. Each group of people looks more stunning than the last and he finds himself grateful for Bruce’s generosity or he truly would have stuck out like a sore thumb. As it is, he finds himself fingering his bow tie, feeling immensely awkward and out of place. He’s here only by the grace of Bruce Wayne’s double life; Superman or not, he doesn’t belong with these peacocks, in the wealth that surrounds him.

He moves forward towards the stage, set between the grand stairs that descend on either side of the atrium, when the lights begin to dim and musicians take their places to play a soft kind of instrumental music. The actual event is about to start.

Most clothing Bruce Wayne wears to events is in shades of dark grey, silver, black, and the occasional navy. Even his shirts are usually a deep shade of dark. The day he’d worn a light-colored linen suit, his clothing choice had not only hit the fashion magazines, but the actual news cycle as well; with as positive a response as the former president’s tan suit had received negative. 

But tonight, as Bruce Wayne comes out to the balcony at the top of the stairs with as much pomp and flair as Cinderella, he is in white.

The entire room falls slowly silent as Bruce adjusts his cuff links as though something might actually be out of place, pausing for effect. What an effect it is. Clark can hear several hard gulps around the room, from men and women both, wait staff and rich alike; his own included. He lets the fact that everyone is staring at Bruce give him weak cover for his own slow rake over the man.

The suit is one shade off of white, a snow, which allows the brilliant stark white of his shirt and tie to stand out. The jacket’s lapels, bottom line, and faux pockets are lined with a deep black, the kind of black Clark associates with the Bat’s cape. His belt is black with a pewter buckle. Finally, he has a slim black and deep grey cashmere scarf that hangs around his neck and falls gently under the jacket. The colors highlight the silver at his temples, the breadth of his shoulders.

By the time Clark has taken Bruce entirely in – including his measured heart beat and the “well done, sir” softly coming from Alfred via his ear piece – Bruce has made it to the middle of the steps where he pauses once more.

“You’re gonna start catching flies, Smallville,” comes a quiet murmur from his elbow. Clark tries not to start. He hadn’t even noticed Lois’ approach.

He shuts his mouth.

“Friends, donors, press,” Bruce welcomes. “It’s going to be a great night. We’ve already collected one million dollars from accepted invites. I’m hoping, at this twenty-fifth annual fundraiser, to beat last year’s high of nine million and make ten million this year. Gotham is looking to construct a second children’s hospital that will turn away no one, regardless of income or citizenship. As always, The Wayne Foundation will match the money made tonight, and the hospital already has received a large allocation from this year’s state budget. Together, we can break ground on the new hospital by early next year!”

A chorus of polite cheers and murmurs float up from the crowd.

“Every single one of you will see me throughout the night as I attempt to wheedle money from those checkbooks,” he pauses as the audience laughs, “but in the meantime, enjoy hors d’oeuvres and champagne until dinner in one hour. Our entertainment tonight includes comedian Trevor Noah from The Daily Show, who will undoubtedly compare me to an African dictator—” 

Here Bruce gestures to the side and a spotlight shines on the South African comedian who smiles, dimples winning over the crowd if the women’s sighs are anything to go by. 

“—And, can you believe it, Celine Dion!” Bruce pauses for applause again. “You’ll also hear occasionally from Ramsey Schwartz, current president of Gotham Children’s. Now enjoy!”

Applause breaks out again, but this time low jazz music begins playing from the band set up in the corner of the dais. The crowd loses interest in Bruce and began to bubble with conversation and laughter. 

Clark, though, is still captivated by his teammate, seeing more of Bruce than Brucie in his speech and wondering how the audience for these events sorts out the dissonance between Brucie’s womanizing antics and his extreme devotion to charity.

Then, with a nudge from Lois, he realizes Bruce is coming directly at him. It’s too late to veer away.

“Clark Kent,” Bruce states, almost jovially. “You are a vision in this tux. Ralph Lauren, isn’t it? The navy is very fetching, the cut exquisite. Who knew you were hiding that underneath all that Midwest plaid?” In as demure of a way as possible, Bruce leers at him. ‘Brucie’ isn’t drunk yet, but that only means his come-ons are slightly less garish in their outrageousness.

It’s absurd; Bruce had chosen it for him and here he is, acting like it’s a surprise. Still, Clark’s heart thumps in his chest at the compliment because once more, Bruce isn’t lying. The way his eyes flicker to his chest and back up, with almost a Batman smirk on his lips, Clark can’t help but wonder if Bruce has suddenly developed super hearing, too.

Bruce’s hand shoots out, pulling up Clark’s arm and eyeing the cufflinks. “Remarkable accessories, too, Mr. Kent. Specifically made for you, I presume? Very on point with the whole Daily Planet theme.”

Clark is hyperaware of the bats engraved in the silver, can hear the minute noise of Bruce’s nail passing over the etched lines, can feel each whorl of his fingerprints where they are pressed against his seemingly vulnerable wrist. He thinks he might faint from the intense stare Bruce is giving him.

Lois steps in, physically taking a step forward, and metaphorically by resting a hand on Clark’s arm.

Bruce’s attention turns to her. “The gorgeous Ms. Lane. Now, I suppose I’ll have to forgive the fact that Clark brought a plus one, seeing you are absolutely stunning in that Herrera.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne,” Lois responds as Clark rolls his eyes. “However, I am here on my own press invitation.”

Surprisingly, as much steel edges her voice, so too does amusement. Clark can’t help but notice a stare-off between the two; brief but intense, before Bruce’s eyes twinkle.

“I hope to catch up with you both later; you’re always much more entertaining than the usual bores who attend these things. Perhaps, Ms. Lane, you can engage me in whatever international diplomacy piece you’re working on now. Something to do with Dubai, is it?”

She smiles tightly, and Clark isn’t sure if she’s truly annoyed or playing along with the Brucie act. “The U.A.E. and Qatar, Mr. Wayne. And I’d be happy to answer some of your questions; especially if you’ll answer me mine regarding recent investments Wayne Enterprises has made in the region.”

Brucie smiles easily; few would notice the flash of flint in his eyes. “Miss Lane, you never rest, do you? Always trying to get that interview!”

“Never,” she responds, a cunning and cutting expression on her lovely features.

Bruce laughs, a toss of his head back as though she’s said something hilarious. “This is why I like you two.” He reaches out and lifts Lois’ hand in both of his, giving it a grand kiss before turning and bowing – absolutely _ridiculous_ , Clark thinks – towards Clark. “The pocketbooks wait for no man!”

Then he’s striding off, grabbing a drink from a passing waiter, white suit not so much vanishing but rather slicing through the crowd.

Lois is curiously silent by his side. Her eyes have taken a speculative look and her finger taps her chin.

“He likes you,” she says finally, a bemused lilt to her voice.

He turns to her. A single wisp of hair has fallen out of her twist; he places it behind her ear. “Bruce doesn’t like me,” he tells her.

“He doesn’t _not_ like you,” she presses.

A surprised hum slips out. Lois raises an eyebrow, questioning.

“It’s funny, is all. That’s what he said,” he explains.

Lois gives him a pointed _look_.

“I told you,” he says. “It’s a game, a con. You should have seen him last week, when Superman stopped by. I’ve never been given a colder shoulder.”

“I think you and I both know he’s different when he’s _him_.” 

Clark purses his lips and pushes up his glasses. Lois looks at him gently and takes his arm, guiding them to a table in the press section. Cat, her date, and Perry are sitting at a table two over and it seems Mr. Fischer is telling an interesting story if their laughter is anything to go by.

They’re startled by a loud, melodious voice shouting out, “Clarkie!”

 _Clarkie?_ Lois mouths, as they turn to look.

The voice belongs to Silver St Cloud who seems to have no compunction about giving Clark a brief but exuberant hug after only meeting him once before. She’s a vision in a shade of grey that is befitting her first name, dripping with tinsel and diamonds. She’s even got a faux white fur wrapped around her elbows. The look should be gauche, but instead its resplendent and her long platinum hair gently done in finger waves invokes images of her surname.

Her silver nails reach out for Lois who startles back but submits to the gentle touch of fingertips to the shoulder of her dress. “My, your date is stunning, Clark! However did you get access to a 2018 RTW Herrera?” she asks Lois.

Lois blushes, a rare sight. “A friend of a friend, I guess?”

“I must know who. I want all the details later,” she gushes. “I’m Silver, by the way.”

“Lois Lane,” Lois says, managing the air kisses Silver gives her with significantly less grace than she adopts the ways of the various cultures she visits when on assignment. Clark struggles not to chuckle.

“And you, Mr. Kent, look exceedingly dashing. If I didn’t know better, I might guess Brucie picked this out himself. Blue is his favorite color – and it brings out your eyes so.” She fingers the lapel of his tux much as Lois had in the limo. She continues on, oblivious to Clark’s heated face and Lois’ _very_ pointed look. “You will help me, won’t you, Clark? I always worry about him at these events and since I’m not his date tonight, I’m afraid someone else will get his drinks. The champagne is so tempting here.” Her voice is wistful.

Bruce must have clued her into their conversation, giving Silver a hint of what he and Bruce knew about each other. Layers and layers of schemes, Clark thinks.

He places on hand on her shoulder gently; it looks absurdly small under his hand. He considers his words. “I haven’t know Bruce as long as you, Silver. But I know he’s strong and dedicated to…his mission. If it helps, though, any chance I can, I’ll try to make sure he’s got his usual, okay? And you, too.”

Her eyes have gone a bit misty and Lois’ hand reaches out as well, cupping her other shoulder, despite only moments before being taken aback by her. It makes Clark proud to love such a caring woman.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Silver brushes off his concern. She shakes her clutch. “I’ve got my sparkling grape juice in a flask. It always works.”

She’s back to her bubbly self, quick as that. “Anyway, thank you. I hope to catch up with you later, but I see my date waving at me to rescue him. He’s a researcher at the hospital and doesn’t get out much, poor dear. Lois, it was positively lovely to meet you! Toodles!”

They both watch, somewhat stunned as Silver makes her way over to a man who appears as out of place as Clark often feels. He certainly looks like a nerdy scientist.

Lois turns to him expectantly. “I’ll explain later,” he says.

The rest of cocktail hour and dinner go well. Trevor Noah does indeed make African dictator jokes at which Brucie laughs, and knowing Bruce, Clark suspects he does find them actually funny. Dinner is five courses, each more delicious than the last – there’s even tiny palate cleansing sorbets in between. He enjoys it all well enough, though he’d rather his Ma or Alfred’s cooking any day. He thinks it’s a good thing he doesn’t need to consume a lot of food or he’d still be hungry by the end of it.

There’s only one instance where he has to excuse himself to the bathroom and find the stairs to the roof of the opera house, taking off for Metropolis. He’s back before the fourth course is over.

Celine’s performance is during dessert and everyone is suitably awed. They listen to the speeches by Mr. Schwartz, including a few stories from parents and children who have used the hospital’s resources. Everyone’s eyes tear up when a five-year old girl speaks, clutching a tiny stuffed Batman the whole time; Clark’s eyes are wet, too, but he can’t help a slip of laughter when at the end she turns towards Bruce and says, “thank you, Badman.” Lois’ nails dig into his arm; she’s holding back laughter, too. It earns aw’s from the crowd who laugh at her child’s lisp and don’t know she’s _actually_ speaking to Batman.

Clark catches Bruce’s wink at the girl, done with the eye opposite the cameras, hidden from the crowd. His heart swells with a strange sense of pride, as though he’s got any kind of claim over Bruce’s behavior.

Finally, the plates are cleared, and the attendees are ushered into the ballroom where the band has a new set, featuring two singers dressed like it’s a forties theme night, and the dancing begins.

The first set of dancers include Bruce, Mr. Schwartz, and Mr. Noah. Each one had been bid on during the dinner. Clark had taken one look at the bidding sheet and blanched. The winners are two women, one young and one likely in her sixties who end up dancing with Bruce and the CEO of Gotham Children’s respectively. Mr. Noah ends up dancing with a man who bears a striking resemblance to Ian McKellan. The two men laugh and surprisingly, are the most graceful on the floor. Bruce’s partner can’t dance at all, though whether it’s because she doesn’t know how or her five-inch heels, Clark isn’t sure.

He and Lois continue to chatter pleasantly with their tablemates as more dancers head out to the floor. Another round of champagne glasses is passed around and they both take one. Clark takes a moment to actively glance at the crowd. There is no sight of either Dent or Edge tonight, though there are a few other Gotham and Metropolis politicians there. It makes him curious as to why he was invited, especially as non-press. He does see Lena; she catches his eye and waves. He waves back, shyly. 

Eventually, Bruce sweeps back over to their side of the ballroom. He gives Cat a wink, a raised hand and a “Perry!” at their editor as he walks by their table. He walks straight up to Lois and Clark and bows, holding his arm out for Lois. “Ms. Lane, would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Mouth curved up in half smirk, half actual smile, she acquiesces, accepting Bruce’s arm. “Of course, Mr. Wayne.” 

Clark watches them go and they look stunning together. Lois is significantly shorter than Bruce, but he manages to bend enough to make the difference less dramatic while not making himself appear hunched. His hands rest gracefully – and modestly – on her upper back and hand-in-hand in a classic ballroom hold. She looks up at him as he swirls her around the dance floor, other couples parting to accommodate their intense waltz. It’s like a scene from a movie and Clark rubs at a pang in his chest. He feels like he’s losing something, watching them dance, and he thinks how Lois would be good for a man like Bruce Wayne. She was able to combat the sorrow in his own heart; what could she do for Bruce?

He continues to watch, all while pretending not to, while Bruce leans further down, whispering in Lois’ ear. Whatever he says startles a laugh out of her and it’s a full-throated one, head thrown back, graceful pale neck arching. Bruce leans in further as they execute a turn, seeming to mouth at her neck, even as Clark knows his lips don’t touch her skin. The image is entrancing and he shivers along with Lois.

The violin solo fades out and they complete the dance with absurdly matching courtesies in the form of a bow and knee bend. There is light applause from those on the dance floor and Clark finds himself biting his lip at the sight of the two of them grinning at each other. He knows it is part of the Brucie act, but Bruce truly looks stunning when he lets joy show on his face, and Clark thinks it almost reaches his eyes in this moment.

The pair leave the dance floor, hands held in a skater’s pose, Bruce leading from behind as though he’s supporting Lois. With a flourish, the older man presents Clark his own fiancé, a “She’s all yours, Kent,” before sauntering away to galvanize some more money, to dance with another potential donor.

Lois leans on him, panting a little from the dance, cheeks flush. She turns to him conspiratorially, “It’s a shame I’m a one-man woman. That one would be fun. Even his peripheral interest is stimulating.”

Clark winces, her comment a little too close to some of his dreams of late.

She pats him on the arm, her gaze still focused after Bruce. “Don’t worry, dear. I think if he were the type, your name would already be tattooed on his ass.”

She flounces off, calling out to Cat as she heads toward the bar for a drink, leaving Clark gaping for the second time that evening.

“I knew he made an impression, but I didn’t think it was jaw-dropping,” comes a posh-sounding woman’s voice next to Clark’s elbow.

He’s taken aback to discover Lena standing next to him, ravishing in an emerald dress that dips low and features a corset bodice. He grimaces internally, wondering why he’s suddenly surrounded by stunning people. He constantly feels out of place.

“You look lovely, Lena,” he says.

She sighs. “It’s always the boys who say that.”

He blinks, confused.

“Never mind. How are you enjoying the party?”

“It’s…grand.”

“Bit much?”

“I’m used to a ‘gala’ being a fancy barn party where there’s twinkling lights and cocktails in mason jars instead of kegs. Doesn’t matter how many of these things I attend, I don’t think I’ll ever be used to the excess.”

“I’ll say this for Wayne,” she says, grabbing a flute of champagne from the waiter walking by, “he delivers some damn fine free champagne and at least his extravagance goes toward fundraisers like this, than a casual Thursday night party.”

“Mmm,” Clark agrees, his eyes catching on Lois speaking with Perry and a younger, handsome black man. Perry’s son? They seem quite engaged in conversation.

When he looks up from Lois, his eyes catch on Bruce’s from across the room. He raises an eyebrow. It appears they’d both been staring at Lois – or Bruce had been staring at him, staring at Lois.

His head threatens to throb, even though it’s impossible for him to experience a headache without Kryptonite or a massive blow to the head involved. 

“He does seem to have an…interest in you,” Lena says, pausing for a moment to look between him and Bruce and Lois. He watches her eyes turn cunning, inquisitive. He takes a drink to hide anything that might give him away.

“Speak of the devil himself,” Lena murmurs, voice reflecting obvious amusement.

Clark turns around and nearly bumps his shoulder into Bruce’s chest. He clutches for the glass in his hand and his glasses on his face, for once not having to fake the clumsiness.

How did he make it across the room that fast? _He’s_ supposed to be the one with superspeed.

Bruce gives a rumbling chuckle that Clark feels in his bones. He takes the champagne flute from Clark’s hand and sets it down on the table next to them. He adds his own empty whiskey tumbler next to it. As usual, there’s no hint of alcohol in its scent, just sweet, sticky ginger ale. “It’s not like you to drink too much, Mr. Kent.”

Clark opens his mouth to protest and then shuts it again. He suspects nothing he says right now will come out right. He looks pleadingly at Lena to save him, but she simply gives him a cloying smile from behind her own glass.

“Now that all the donors have been visited, I can finally have some fun. And you, Mr. Kent, look like a ravishing good time. Might I have this dance?”

Bruce’s eyes twinkle as he holds out a hand as though he were offering Clark assistance to stand, lording his extra two inches over him. If Clark didn’t know better, he’d suspect Bruce actually is having fun. Clark doesn’t hate that idea, even if it is at his expense.

He accepts the outstretched hand as he rolls his eyes. “If you insist, Mr. Wayne.”

“I do,” rumbles Bruce’s voice and it isn’t as high-pitched as Brucie’s usually is. Clark lets the vibration pass through him like static electricity, delighting in the thrill even if the tone probably means Bruce needs to discuss something case-related, rather than because he is eager to dance with Superman.

He catches Lena’s two-fingered salute and deliberately mouthed _interested_ in a glance and then Lois’ eyes raking over him from where she sits at a table dishing with Cat, and maybe-Perry’s-son, before he is swept into the middle of the floor, out of their sight.

Bruce’s hold is tight but not uncomfortable. They are close enough that Clark can read the age lines around his eyes, smell the pop on his breath. For a brief moment, Clark closes his eyes, taking it in, the whiff of musk, the chattering of other guests, the way his hand matches Bruce’s, rather than drowning it. Then he feels Bruce move his left foot forward and they are dancing.

He pries his eyes open only to immediately glance down because in this position, the two of them are close enough to kiss and Clark feels swallowed by embarrassment.

Bruce isn’t going to let him get away with it, though. “Look at me,” he says, commanding, voice quiet enough so no one will hear, deep enough to be Batman. When he has Clark’s attention again, he asks, louder, “Where did you learn to dance?”

Clark laughs, the question taking him by surprise. “I never learned, actually. Not outside gym class and the middle school shuffle, anyway.”

Bruce’s eyebrows raise. “Middle school shuffle?”

“You know,” Clark says, “where the chaperones insist no one can touch and if you did, someone’s hormones might explode anyway so everyone just awkwardly sways, and no one quite looks their date in the eye.” He moves enough, interrupting the gentle three count of the waltz to simulate a sort of side-to-side shuffle.

He’s graced with a chuckle. “We didn’t have that at boarding school. Chaperones didn’t allow for touching, but it was all stiff arms and chins up.”

“Hmm. Let me guess, you knew the tango by age ten?”

“Gracious no,” Bruce states, and in that moment, he sounds just like Alfred. “No, I’m afraid we weren’t allowed the tango. It was mostly precision practice of the Viennese Waltz. That’s what I danced with your partner earlier.”

A moment of silence and then he continues. “You certainly could have fooled me. That you didn’t know how to dance, I mean.”

Clark smiles. He leans in to whisper in Bruce’s ear – it _is_ part of the cover, of sorts – and says, “Look down.”

Bruce pulls back far enough that the bulk of their bodies doesn’t obstruct his view and when Clark knows he is looking, he taps the toe of one shoe the slightest bit on the ground.

He hadn’t needed to pick up his foot to do so.

“You cheat,” Bruce hisses, and Clark can tell Batman is warring with Bruce in whether or not to be delighted to know Clark is floating on air or to scold him for using his powers where someone else might notice. But Clark has enough practice and unless someone threw a piece of paper under them in that moment, no one would ever notice the slight of foot that allowed Clark to follow Bruce’s lead as they went around the dance floor, without tripping over his partner’s feet.

Clark shrugs, chuckling. “I didn’t think the bunny hop would be appropriate at such a high-class event and since I never learned anything else...”

“The benefit of being ‘high-class,’” here Bruce takes on an additional affectation, mocking both Clark and himself, “is that there are no chaperones.”

Bruce’s hand travels down his back, resting at an indecent spot just above Clark’s ass. Ever so gently – it could seem like an honest mistake – he feels Bruce’s pinkie creep further down until he thinks it might burn a hole through his suit as it lands on the swell of his cheeks where they part. The intimation has Clark gulping air he doesn’t need, even as he is pulled in closer to Bruce’s frame.

So close, he’d swear he can feel Bruce beginning to harden, but when he looks back at his face, it is as cool and collected as ever, faux leer in place, without a single eyelash batted to suggest this is affecting Bruce the way it is Clark. His eyes are a clear hazel though they appear warmer than Clark is used to, more liquid brown than sharp gold and green; he puts it down to the golden lights in the ballroom.

They still hold a solid frame on one side, but because Bruce has brought him in closer, Clark ends up clutching at his shoulder in a way less middle school shuffle and more the high school slow dance of two sweethearts. Bruce leans in, his breath rustling the hair at the nape of Clark’s neck, warmth sending shivers down his spine.

Clark expects a whispered comment about Dent or the case, maybe some frustratingly obnoxious Brucie comment about his ass. It doesn’t come though, and if he were anyone else, Clark would think Bruce was simply enjoying holding him, swaying in a modified waltz that means Clark doesn’t need to float anymore and he ends up bumping one of his feet into Bruce’s. 

Bruce remains quiet. It’s a gentle silence – nothing like the silence that happens in the cave or atop rooftops, the slightest bit of breath still sending shivers of anticipation down Clark’s spine.

Clark is awash in the feeling of Bruce’s hand in his, cool and calloused, both smooth and rough. He’s acutely aware of the pinky still resting at an indecent spot for a friend, for a _coworker_ , and he finds himself fiercely wishing Bruce had thought of some other cover. It’s torture for Clark’s senses. Everything is _Bruce_ as the crowd washes away, distilled to one heartbeat, to the soft contrast of silver and black hairs rubbing against his temple, to what almost seems like a rumble, more a feeling than a sound, that emanates from Bruce almost like a hum. 

The song – Sinatra, he thinks – comes to a close and at the very end, Bruce pulls him in impossibly tight, only to direct him down into a dip, cheeky grin back on his face. He lets him up, insisting with subtle pressure of his hand that Clark execute a final solo spin and then he steps back and bows, holding his mouth over Clark’s hand that he’s still holding. Cool lips brush his skin. The same pinkie that was pressing on his ass a minute before is now carefully pressing the silver cufflink into Clark’s wrist. “No, the pleasure was all mine,” he practically purrs, loud enough for the dancers around them to titter at.

Then with a wink, he’s vanished through the crowd once more.

Clark continues to stand there, feeling somewhat adrift. That dance may have been the most intimate thing he’s experienced outside of sex, and it was all fake. 

He thinks he needs to talk to Lois.

Clark makes his way back to the table where Lena still stands. She hands him his drink from before. His throat is parched.

“You two put on quite a show,” Lena drawls in a low voice.

He shakes his head, grabbing another glass from the tray that walks by. “I don’t understand,” he says, and that much is true. It’s not like Batman ever outlined a strategy for him, an explanation of this cover where apparently a billionaire enjoys teasing a farm boy. “He knows I’m attached.”

Lena considers him. “Are you?” she asks.

“Attached?” he questions back, unsure if that’s what she meant.

Just then, his phone buzzes in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he mumbles, pulling it out. It’s a text from Lois. 

_Would you believe Cat found gossip more interesting than your flirtation with Wayne? Don’t wait up._

He stares at it. Given the text format, he honestly can’t tell if she’s upset or not. It could be her usual, casual jot of a note. Or it could mean she was upset to see him dancing with someone else. They’d only danced once together themselves that night.

He sighs to himself. It would be so much easier if he could convince himself it was all for show. But his hand still tingles where Bruce’s lips grazed it.

“It seems I am not for tonight.”

“Oh?“ Lena asks, curiosity obvious.

“My date, my _fiancé_ , has ditched me for more exciting gossip with our coworkers, it appears.”

“Mm,” she hums. “Perhaps, since you’re free, you’ll go to Wayne’s after party? I don’t doubt he’d appreciate the company.” There’s a not-so-subtle hint to her words.

He throws her a weary side-eye. “I’ve had enough partying for one night. I’m thinking an early night in with one of those house-flipping shows.”

She laughs. “I love those!” 

They end up discussing various HGTV shows and bickering over which Property Brother is cuter – Clark thinks Jonathan, Lena states its Drew, he’s a much better dresser, but Clark insists the plaid works – and suddenly, he realizes she’s walked him out of The Met and he can’t simply fly away.

She seems to notice his brief panic. “How did you get here, anyway?”

He brushes at the back of his neck. “Um, company car.”

“Which, I’m guessing your fiancé and coworkers commandeered for their plans?”

“Probably,” he says. “It’s okay, I’ll Uber.” He isn’t looking forward to _that_ bill. A night like tonight, there’s bound to be surcharges and it’ll take at least half an hour back to his apartment. Maybe he can find a way to get reimbursed by Bruce. He scolds himself; he doesn’t need to encourage any continuing generous donations to the Kent family. The man bought a _bank_.

“To Metropolis?” she asks, sounding scandalized. “No, I won’t have it, Mr. Kent.”

She hands a valet slip from her clutch to the man standing at the desk outside the building.

“Lena, what are you—?"

“I live in Metropolis as well and I took my own vehicle tonight. I’m insisting you allow me to give you a ride home.” Her tone is so firm, he shrugs and doesn’t continue to object. “You’re lucky I didn’t take the helicopter tonight.”

He laughs. 

He takes in a sharp breath when a deep green sports car he’s never seen pulls up in front of them. The color matches Lena’s eyes, exactly.

“Your Bugatti, ma’am,” the valet says, clearly trying to sound bored as he passes her the key, but utterly failing. Clark doesn’t blame him.

They climb into the car, Lena a lot more gracefully in spite of her heels. The inside looks like a spaceship and he vaguely wonders if Bugatti somehow got a hold of the scout ship’s design. It’s downright alien from his worn red Ford truck.

He looks over at Lena and she’s grinning, wide and beautiful. It’s hard in this moment to imagine she’s at all related to Lex Luthor, the sheer child-like joy on her face, the way she’s offered a ride home to a lowly reporter.

He grins back.

“I wanted to thank you, by the way,” she says as she pulls away from the curb. “Your piece on LexCorp was very fair.”

He shrugs. “It was all true. I found no information that placed you or LexCorp at blame for the toxin discovered in those pools. It just bothers me I wasn’t able to uncover its actual source. It definitely wasn’t natural.”

Her lips thin for a moment. She shakes her head and then smiles at him again, warm and kind. “Tell me, Clark, what do think of—"

He listens to her chatter, her voice smooth and low and calming with its hard-to-place accent, about her planned continued changes to LexCorp, how she’s looking to expand into some small towns to provide jobs where classic employment has left, like cars and coal and timber, how she’s considering moving HQ to National City to get a fresh start, and it’s all done without any seeming artifice despite the fact that she hasn’t asked for it to be off record. He thinks, maybe she’s needed a friend, too, someone who didn’t immediately jump on her because she’s a Luthor. 

He won’t print anything she says tonight.

He wishes, in that moment, he could tell her and trust she wouldn’t change; but she’s a Luthor regardless and he can’t let anyone else in on the secret, especially if they have the means to hurt him or are without the means to protect themselves, like Barry and Diana can.

So instead, he listens and leans his head on the window, watching the city lights slide by as they make their way back to Metropolis, and he doesn’t let the thought of Bruce or even Lois cloud his mind. He doesn’t look at the tops of buildings to find a shadow. He thinks it’s almost as nice as flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: [Lois' dress](http://tinypic.com/m/k362x5/3), [Bruce's suit](http://tinypic.com/m/k362wp/3), [Silver's dress](http://tinypic.com/m/k362wo/3), [Lena's Chiron (but in green)](http://tinypic.com/m/k362wx/3).


	10. Chapter 10

Near the end of September, Bruce picks Clark up one afternoon in his silver Aston Martin. He has a moment of déjà vu and wonders when all his friends suddenly became people who owned expensive cars – he’s seen Diana’s car, too. It’s not that he dislikes them; he was raised as a red-blooded Midwest male, Nascar was his favorite TV sport growing up. It’s just that it puts a weird, nostalgic sheen to his youth when he and Lana would slide down a rare Kansas hill on an old 1957 Chevy pickup hood they found behind the Samford’s farm or the fifth time his truck broke down in one summer when the Kansas heat reached a consistent ninety-nine degrees and he had to speed home to get the parts from the barn to replace whatever had broken this time. 

Bruce looks dapper today, leaning against the car, right foot kicked over his left. He’s wearing a full three-piece suit in a light grey small houndstooth pattern. The waistcoast is double-breasted and all of Bruce’s accents are black, from the skinny tie to the buttons, his pocket square, and his suede shoes that show he’s not wearing socks. The pants are cut in a way that make his thighs look slimmer while hugging his calves. He also swept his bangs to the side today, giving him a more youthful look.

Bruce is tapping the communicator on his wrist, like he’s impatient as Clark exits the security door. He gets closer and realizes he’s actually typing out a message.

He grunts in recognition that Clark is there and opens the swan doors, climbing in gracefully, a man well-practiced. The strangest part for Clark is walking around to the street side and sliding into the left side as a passenger, conscious to not wrinkle his khakis. The back window is hardly bigger than a postage stamp. He sees a series of cameras on the dashboard and figures that is how Bruce navigates his rear vision. Seriously, these cars are more complicated than Kryptonian technology.

Bruce revs the engine, grinning at him like a loon as Clark clutches the dashboard in front of him as Bruce pulls out directly into traffic with barely a glance at those cameras.

“Live a little, Clark.”

He lets out a small snort; he can _fly_ , he’s living life just fine, thanks. “Just don’t tell me this is better than sex,” Clark says through gritted teeth, thinking back to any number of older men in Smallville who would brag about cars being better than women.

“Alright, I won’t,” Bruce agrees, and his smirk is something more _Bruce_. He pauses for effect: “But it does depend on the sex.”

He levels a stare at the man, but this is _Batman_ and Bruce is impervious to looks unless they come from Alfred, it seems.

It’s his own fault that he’s now imagining the kind of sex Bruce would find better than driving this car. Is it the person or the athleticism? What kind of sex could the Batman possibly have that would satisfy his adrenaline cravings? Or does Bruce secretly crave release from the control he demands in all other aspects of his life?

 _Clark Joseph Kent_ , his ma’s voice rings in his ears and that shuts down that line of thought, real quick.

“Tell me again about today,” he says, instead of acknowledging Bruce’s previous comment.

Bruce talks as he drives, downshifting quick and placing his foot on the gas pedal like he’s driving to catch a criminal instead of simply through Metropolis mid-day traffic. Clark thinks they’ll get there in half the time he expected, making up for his tardiness that occurred as a result of stopping an attempted bank robbery on his way to the apartment after his half-day of work.

“In the last few weeks, I’ve been able to ingratiate myself back into Harvey’s good graces. He and I have never been on the outs, of course, but it has taken some convincing on my part – and a lot of listening to policy proposals with faux enthusiasm – to convince him I want to support him financially.

“Cloning his phone hasn’t revealed anything, so I’m thinking he’s got another phone or else Edge is the true mastermind behind it all. The thing about Edge is he’s paranoid about his business. According to several of his former employees, he keeps as tight a lock on Edge Industries information as the NSA does. Guards literally search each employee as they leave the office for the day. He keeps everything personally important on a non-networked computer that’s in his home office.”

Bruce shifts again, zooming in front of three cars and narrowly missing the median as he gets on the exit for the Metro-Narrows. Clark’s life is flashing before his eyes. He logically knows they’ll be fine – _he’ll_ be just fine – but watching the cars and buildings race by he feels a primal sense of fear. He grits his teeth harder and tries to ignore it.

“I’ve known Edge was holding a fundraiser this week for the last month. It’s at his Gotham estate, just outside city limits. It’s going to be a country club kind of day: lots of glad-handing, skeet shooting, polo, the sports of rich white dudes. Brandy and cigars in the library.”

He flashes his teeth at Clark. “All things I excel at.”

Clark takes a moment to consider Bruce on a horse with a mallet clutched in his broad hands. He instead ends up imagining Batman on the horse and laughs quietly to himself.

“I got Harvey to include you on my word that anything you write about his policies will be fair and balanced. After all, if I’m interested in you, you can’t be too far from my own policy preferences, right? He thinks you’re mostly a Superman pap, anyway. Relatively harmless and if it means he gets Bruce Wayne’s support…”

_If I’m interested in you…_

Clark’s mind goes offline for a moment and he bites his lip, hard, to reign it in. He’s got to remember: _he’s engaged_. Even if Lois has been pulling away. _Bruce can barely stand him_. Even though he bought his Ma’s farm and gave it back interest-free because she wouldn’t accept it entirely free. _Bruce and Diana have a much stronger connection. He’s seen the lustful stares they cast at one another_. Even if Diana seems to continue to mourn her long dead love.

He smooths a non-existent crease in his pants.

Bruce has kept talking. He’s much more talkative when Clark asks about the case than any other time. It’s a nice deviation from his usual taciturn nature.

“—So we just need to get the flashdrive connected to Edge’s computer and the code Oracle created will scan and duplicate any files related to Dent, Larson, and the subsidiary he bought from Premier Voting Systems.”

Clark nods. “Easy enough. You want me to fly in a window or something while everyone’s out shooting clay pigeons?”

Bruce considers. “I admit, I don’t know the set up. Of the day or Edge’s house. That may happen, but I want to play it by ear. We don’t need Clark Kent caught on video flying around Edge Estate.”

Clark looks over at him, surprised. “Batman wants to play it _by ear_?” 

Bruce holds up a finger with a little “acht,” sound while he uses the other to exit the bridge and take the highway situated along the bay coast to go around the city rather than through it. He has a lingering bruise on his knuckles. “ _Bruce Wayne_ is playing it by ear.”

“Oh, yes, how could I forget,” he says sarcastically.

They fall into the first silence of the trip. Clark zones out with no cries for help reaching his ears for the moment. 

He’s brought back when he picks up a subtle drumming noise. He glances around for its source and notices Bruce’s fingers are tapping out a tune on the steering wheel. He has no idea what it is, but that simple, human inclination makes him feel warm. It’s rare he gets to see this side of Bruce.

He doesn’t comment on it, afraid it’ll stop. He does ask, though, “Oracle?”

The drumming stumbles, but then picks back up, a different rhythm than before. “Barbara,” Bruce says, tersely.

“I thought so. Does the Commissioner know?”

Bruce nods. “She donned a costume and the name Batgirl at sixteen after seeing Batman rescue a classmate one night. She would tag along, following me around the city – poorly – for hours. She was a cheerleader, so she had some agility, but her stealth skills—” he clucks his tongue. “Awful. Dick could have tracked her when he was ten.

“I remember, Dick and I had an argument about her one night. Even at fifteen, he had a crush on her. He wanted to bring her in; I thought it was too dangerous. That night, she hacked into the GCPD database and found the link in a case I’d been missing. She convinced me.”

Bruce looks out the window. Clark watches his jaw tighten, his fingers stop drumming and grip the steering wheel tighter. 

“She kept helping me…after. That’s how Gordon found out: when the Joker showed up on their doorstop and shot her, right in the gut, severing the connection between her brain and her legs. She can still feel, the signal to move just doesn’t make it through.”

Bruce delivers the account dry, entirely emotionless. Clark senses his emotions run too deep to express, rather than that he truly feels it so clinically.

“He did it to get at me. I don’t know how he figured it out, if he ever figured out who I was, or if he just discovered Barbara. He certainly didn’t seem to know Ja—”

He cuts himself off. He’s quiet for a long time. Clark lets him be. It’s not a bad silence. The Aston purrs beneath them.

They’re pulling onto a tree lined drive when Bruce finally speaks again. “Oracle – the name she took after – kept helping the Bat, when even Dick shut me out. Two years ago, she and Alfred were the only ones willing to stick around when I was at my worst. Branding people, planning to kill a god.”

He pauses. “She’s a good girl. Woman. Just wait until you have kids, Clark; the time flies. She’s good, _right_ for him.”

They pull up onto a paved lot outside a huge Georgian mansion, big enough that there’s already twenty or so cars parked and still room for more. Bruce throws the car into park and pulls down the visor to reveal a larger than usual mirror in which he fixes an imaginary stray hair and blots at his forehead. He looks immaculate.

Quick as that, it’s Brucie who turns towards Clark. He reaches out and fidgets with Clark’s tie, brushes a hand over his blazer’s lapels, lets a hand wander too far down before Clark shifts, uncomfortable. His response is a devilish smirk.

“Showtime, son,” Brucie says and presses the button for the swan doors to open.

Bruce swings his arm companionably around Clark’s shoulder as they head in and Clark finds it surprisingly easy to fall into step. He does his best to hide the shiver that runs down his spine when, directly in front of the staff member holding the front door open for them, Bruce bends down half an inch to run his nose through the hair at Clark’s temple. He swears he can feel Bruce’s lips graze his skin but if so, it’s so light that even Superman’s senses can’t be sure.

It's impossible to ignore the overstated wink Bruce gives to the man who barely blinks back at him. He’s so stoic, Clark entertains the notion that he went to the same school of butlery as Alfred.

Harvey greets them, a droll expression on his good side.

“Harvey!” Bruce exclaims, taking his arm from around Clark to extend towards Harvey instead. They shake hands and if Harvey barely glances at Clark as he leads Bruce into the parlor where a number of other people are gathered, all it does is enforce that their ‘cover’ is working. Morgan Edge greets them when they enter though his face is downright nasty when he shakes Clark’s hand. He’s perfectly polite in words, however.

Thus begins an afternoon both tedious in tone and fascinating from someone who’s never lived the luxurious life. Edge leads them on a tour of the main floor of his estate before taking them out back to the stations for skeet shooting. As it happens, one of the men there is a former Olympian and he spends twenty minutes bragging about his time in Athens while they’re all suiting up.

Clark tries to sit it out, but Bruce jabs him with an elbow and murmurs, “you do know how to shoot, don’t you?” It ends up priming a competitive streak in him, which he suspects was Bruce’s goal, but he finds himself donning the glasses and belt anyway. He’s momentarily distracted by the way the other man caresses the shotgun. It’s as intoxicating to watch as a master pianist at the keys and Clark wonders at the thoughts going through Bruce’s head, given his general distaste for such weapons.

Bruce catches him watching, of course, and if anything, his handling of the gun becomes more sensual. Clark looks away.

The former Olympian has a piece of advice for everyone, from Harvey to Clark – who deliberately bumbles the shot when it’s his turn – and even Edge, a stormy expression crossing his features for a brief flash. The only one he has nothing for is Bruce. The man looks him up and down, taking in his form and the explosion of the target and simply hums.

Clark though notices how the pigeon is left partially intact; Bruce aimed approximately two millimeters off for less damage. He’s playing good enough to impress the competitors, but not as good as he could.

There are too many guests to play polo and so Bruce and Clark sit with the few wives and women supporters who are cheering politely on the sidelines, sunhats and glasses, looking so serious as to be at the Kentucky Derby. Clark barely gets out of it given Edge knows he’s a farm boy and mocks him for not being able to handle horses; surprisingly, it’s Harvey who steps in, waving Edge aside and a hissed, “this is my party, Edge,” that Clark only hears because he’s trying to.

Bruce gets out of it based on his attire and a whiny edge to his voice about the heat. He demands a drink – which is followed by a chorus of “drinks!” from the others – and smiles charmingly at Edge who heaves a sigh and signals to one of the staff members waiting along the outside of the house.

Clark leans forward and teases, “I thought you said you exceled at this.”

Bruce tilts back into his space. His hands are in his pockets which causes his arm to brush against the length of Clark’s chest. Clark finds himself reaching out to fiddle at the perfectly cuffed sleeve resting below his elbow, exposing his forearms to the sunshine. Bruce’s arm hair, the weave of the shirt, and sun-warm skin taunt his fingers in different ways. “The wives always have the best gossip,” Bruce whispers before putting a deliberate foot of space between them with a tight-lipped attempt of a smile.

Clark thinks he’s crossed a line. He just doesn’t know where, given Bruce seems to think he has free reign to Clark’s space in this gambit.

Clark ends up amongst the gaggle of women who are treating him like he’s their new best friend, asking after fashion advice and his thoughts on the new Queer Eye reboot, despite his insistence he hasn't seen it. He thinks he mostly blinks at them, feeling like an owl, because it’s hilarious to him that these women are asking _him_ about fashion instead of the svelte and haute couture-decked man lurking behind them. He and Bruce do lock eyes at one point and when he smiles conspiratorially, Bruce’s eyes are a warm honey brown and he thinks it’s worth it to look like a fop if it gives Bruce something to be amused at.

They don’t learn about any nefarious schemes, but Clark is intrigued to discover the quiet wisp of a woman who looks close to twenty is Trent Larson’s wife. At one point she apologizes to the other women that Trent couldn’t travel to Gotham for the event, but they all insist they understand how the campaign trail is. He thinks Bruce might have caught something he doesn’t; whilst Bruce is charming them, flirting with the few single women, young and old, his eyes are contemplative, like he’s mulling over a problem in his head and his attention is only half there with them.

Edge’s team wins the brief match and as they all head back into the house, horses handed over to stable staff, one of the women – Ruth, wife of Gotham’s city manager – finally asks Clark the question she’s clearly been dying to know the answer to, “Are you dating Bruce Wayne?” in a voice befitting a high school girl looking for the top gossip.

He shifts, uncomfortably. His eyes naturally seek out Bruce’s and they connect for a moment. Brucie winks at him and Clark responds truthfully: “It’s complicated.”

This of course excites her more and she gestures her friend Brenda over and he’s suddenly embellishing a story about that first night he landed on Brucie Wayne’s radar. He finds himself on the opposite side of the room from Bruce for some time as they refresh with drinks and hors d'oeuvres and he listens with half an ear to Harvey’s policy proposals and promises of tit-for-tat for the local businessmen who are gathered, and about reversing a previous statute that did not allow a new Knights stadium to be built to the owner of the team who Clark thinks he’s seen sitting in the box seats the one game he got to when they played the Giants. 

Bruce’s laugh often rings out, fake to Clark’s ears, his voice reminiscing stories about and to Harvey, charming all the men around them. He’s better than Edge who stands slightly back, glowering.

Dusk is setting in when Bruce catches his eye across the room and then slips into the hall behind him. Clark’s hearing catches his baritone whispering to him. “Tell them you need the bathroom and follow me in forty-five seconds.”

Clark makes his excuses and in exactly forty-five seconds as ordered, he’s following behind Bruce as they pass one security guard and one staff member who points Bruce up the stairs – presumably to the bathroom – and who gives Clark a curious glance as he follows shortly after.

Bruce is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, out of the sight of those in the hallway. His hands sit in his pockets, his posture completely posed and relaxed, even as Clark senses a wave of energy coming from him, the same that encompasses the Bat when he’s on watch.

After a quick glance around, Bruce tugs him down the hall opposite the one the bathroom is located in, and through a heavy oak door into an office.

His lips make a smug line as he pulls a small flash drive from his jacket’s inner pocket.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, who dressed you today? Jimmy?”

Clark looks down at himself, taking in the pressed khakis, the light blue checked shirt, navy blue blazer, and pink tie covered in tiny whales. He’s even got a coordinating pocket square with a presidential fold. “Lois, actually. Drug me through some store called Vineyard Bay? Vines. Said she wanted me to ‘fit in for once’.”

“Hmm,” Bruce says, off-hand, while he puts the drive into the USB port. “It’s a good look.” 

“I don’t hate it,” Clark shrugs. “But it’s not very Clark Kent.”

“I suppose not,” Bruce mumbles. Then he looks up. “They make plaid prints, too,” he says with a cheeky grin Clark isn’t used to seeing when they’re on a mission. “If that’s the issue; not enough plaid for the midwestern boy.”

Clark rolls his eyes. “I don’t only wear plaid, you know.”

“No, just Carhart and Men’s Warehouse.” His fingers are busy on the laptop.

“Now look, Bruce, just because we’re not all billionaires and I need clothes that have to handle farm work—”

“I have half a mind to sneak into your place one night and replace every Wrangler with Balmain and Gucci.”

Clark crosses his arms. “Is that the day Brucie proposes to small town reporter Clark Kent? Because otherwise—"

Bruce stiffens, suddenly. “Someone is coming.”

Clark startles and then listens. Footsteps are just down the hall – there’s no time to leave or hide. How did he fail to notice—?

“Clark, please work with me here,” Bruce says and before Clark can ask about what, Bruce is leaning over the desk, grabbing his pink tie with one hand and yanking Clark forward, so abrupt that he doesn’t try to stop the momentum, just goes with it, hands landing on the desk – until Bruce’s lips are crashing down on his.

There’s a stunned moment where Clark’s eyes are still open and he’s too shocked to move, ending up cross-eyed trying to stare at Bruce and he knows surprise is written in every line of his body. He’s so close, he can see a few gray eyebrow hairs and the oil that collects in every human’s pores as though he’s starring at a high-definition photo as large as a side of a building. In less than a second, he’s catalogued the woodsy smell of Brucie’s cologne, the vaguely chemical scent of the gel used in his hair, the way his body sheds heat like the sun, the flutter of eyelashes against his own, the firmness of his lips, and then the taste of him as Bruce plunders his way through Clark’s defenses and slips him tongue.

It’s that explosion of senses that makes him close his eyes. It’s forever in an instant, time simultaneously speeding up and slowing down as Clark takes everything in, including the thud-thud of expensive shoes on the hardwood floor and the hand on the doorknob pushing the door open.

Bruce moves one hand atop the flash drive while the other that had been gripping his tie first tugs him closer so that Clark has to shift his own hands on the desk closer to the other man to maintain his balance or end up floating, and then it leaves his collar for his hair, burying itself in the curls.

Clark doesn’t know who is entering the room, so involved in the taste of brandy and spit and the feel of Bruce’s tongue on his teeth, in the knowledge that if this were Lois, he would have gripped her by the chin and hauled her across the desk by now.

Then he thinks – _Lois_.

He knows what this is, as someone’s throat clears behind then and Bruce begins to drawback, slowly, still in character, like Bruce Wayne has no problem being caught making out with a man in someone else’s home, even depositing a nip at Clark’s bottom lip and a few pecks as he lets go of curls and pulls back, dopey Brucie grin on a face simulating lust with heavy-lidded eyes. But his hand never lets up from where it is hiding the still-connected flash drive.

It’s all a pageant and Clark is half-hard at a fake kiss with the thought of Lois and her soft red hair mixing with the harsh but handsome lines of Bruce’s face. 

He takes a deep breath – not at all for show – and stutters out a reedy “Mr. Wayne—”

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Wayne?“ comes the curt and harsh voice of Morgan Edge.

 _Shit_.

Clark turns around, moving himself so that he isn’t presenting his ass to the guy. Edge has gone for a drink, looking as casual as Bruce about finding people making out in his home office. His bangs flop over his forehead as he takes a drink, thick eyebrows raised as he waits for an answer.

“You know, when my security informed me two men had gone upstairs, I expected to find snoops, perhaps even an assassination attempt.” He swirls the amber liquid in his glass, perfect teeth showing when he sneers. “Not Bruce Wayne and that reporter he’s been oogling recently. Not two homos deciding to sully my office.”

“Interesting. I always knew you were a scumbag, Edge. Didn’t realize you were homophobic, too,” Bruce says, cool as a cucumber in the face of Edge’s disdain.

Edge grits his teeth. “This is a private fundraiser. Is he here as press or an uninvited plus one?”

Brucie’s smile is predatory. “You should know from Harvey that I love to mix business and pleasure.” The smile drops as Bruce adopts the genteel calm that he uses in the boardroom and when making presentations. “But Mr. Kent here is innocent – although his kissing technique suggests not as innocent as he looks.” The last bit is said with a leer somehow directed at both Clark and Edge.

Clark flushes, horrified. 

Edge sniffs, moving around them until he can take in both their profiles, eyes sharp on how close both are to his computer.

“Maybe because he’s dating Ms. Lane. She seems like the kind of woman who demands nothing but excellence. Shame she thinks this oaf from a flyover state is what a real man is. FOX News has done us truly powerful men a disservice with that myth. I dare say I could show her a truly good time.”

It's only through years of control that Clark allows Bruce’s grip on his elbow to keep him from leaping at Edge and smearing his face bloody. Clark’s never felt a rage quite so hot as in that moment. He spares a thought that it might only be because it’s _Bruce’s_ long fingers on his arm that keeps him from shoving Edge against the wall with a might not typical in humans, least of all mild-mannered reporters.

“Keep her name out of your mouth,” he hisses. Should Edge ever look, he would find finger-shaped dents on the under edge of his desk.

The man simply laughs, though. “Does Ms. Lane know she’s a beard? Or do you think about getting fed by Brucie here to get it up when you have sex?”

Bruce’s voice cuts in, slight amusement obvious, his hand still resting on Clark. “Funny you think he’s the one getting fucked.”

Edge’s attention quickly shifts to Bruce, his eyes reflecting a malicious glint and his teeth show once more in his smile. “Oh, I was just being polite. I know all about you and your predilection for getting cock up the ass. You think I would fail to vet someone I’m donating money to? I know everything about you and Dent. Mr. Kent here may like ass, but I _know_ you’re a fag.”

Well. Clark is momentarily taken aback by the slur he hasn’t heard uttered in public since he left an oil rig in the Atlantic.

His thought is reinforced though by the shift in Bruce’s body. Tension suddenly flows through him and while his face remains placid, it’s clear to Clark that Batman is in the room and Edge isn’t going to like what happens. Clark places his hand on top of the one that is gripping his elbow so tight now, that it, had he been human, might have snapped bone.

Batman turns to look at him; Bruce tells him to go. “Mr. Kent. Morgan and I need to have a word in private. Please, accept my apologies for crossing a line.”

Clark stares at him, wondering who is apologizing exactly. Does he dare leave Edge alone with Bruce right now?

Then he realizes Bruce is too careful to undermine his performance over a slight about his sexual proclivities. He lets go of Bruce’s hand and steps back, fiddling with his glasses, attempting to look every bit the corn-fed oaf Edge considers him.

“No apologizes necessary, Mr. Wayne. Simple misunderstanding,” he stammers out, letting a blush build on his skin as he runs for the door.

When he turns the corner down the hall, still hidden from the main stairs, but far enough away from the office that he won’t be caught when the two men leave, he takes a calming breath. Then he tunes in. Bruce had said private, but he still needs to know if Brucie decides to throw a punch on Clark’s behalf.

Clark uses his x-ray vision to watch the room.

“—If anything comes out about this in the press, from TMZ, or Metropolis’ The Sun,” Bruce is saying as he callously flips Edge’s laptop closed, seemingly to make a point, but Clark sees him slip the flash drive up his sleeve like a magician. “If I hear one _breath_ of a rumor about Clark Kent’s sexuality on twitter, I will expose you, Edge.”

Bruce is taking full advantage of his height, ever-so casually leaning to whisper into Edge’s ear. “I will leak the name of that escort service you love so much in Gotham, the one you use when your wife is in National City. The world will find out Edge has something much worse to hide than a supposed pee tape in Russia.”

To his credit, Edge only flinches and his lips thin out to a small line. Brucie makes his appearance once more as Bruce seems to stumble, as if with too much drink, and he plasters on a sickly sweet and vapid smile, turning to go. “Always good catching up with you, Morgan.”

“You care about him,” Edge states, watching Bruce go. “You’ve showed your hand today, Bruce. He’s a weakness that will be exploited. Whether by me or someone else.” 

As Bruce opens the door to the office, Clark forces himself to stop spying and removes himself to the bathroom at the other end of the stairs. He relieves himself purely out of anxiousness and then splashes his face with water. When he gazes at his own reflection, he appears to be the usual, slightly rumpled Clark Kent he portrays to the world. No one else would notice his lips are still a little swollen from a breath-stealing kiss, that his curls are rumpled from Bruce Wayne’s – _Batman’s_ – hand running through them, grasping strands tight enough to incline Clark’s head up and into that kiss.

 _Fag_ runs through his head, over and over, that disgusted sneer on Edge’s face, the unbidden image of Bruce and Harvey Dent fucking, and a swirl of emotions he can’t parse yet. Clark has never felt the need to come out of any kind of closet; his sexuality has been the least interesting thing about him for the few who have known _Clark_ , Lois included, but it stings to know someone like Bruce still has to deal with slurs in 2017. He tries to remind himself that there are always bigots, it doesn’t matter the year, but all he can think is his Ma telling him he doesn’t have to give people one bit of himself and how different it is for Bruce who lives such a public life and maybe slips too much of himself into a persona or how he might make something of himself part of that persona just to be real about _something_ , and how assholes like Edge would do nothing but take advantage.

Feeling sick and overwhelmed, he texts Bruce on his WayneTech watch communicator that since they’d gotten what they needed for the operation, he was leaving. He orders an Uber and he stays in the bathroom until the driver is there. He’s lucky the driver must have dropped someone off close by. He walks outside, mingling with a few other guests who are preparing to leave and then cancels the ride; someone else will use it. It should cover his tracks with any of the people at the fundraiser. 

A cry for help that reaches his ears allows himself to feel less guilty about leaving without facing Bruce.

He lets the biting air wash away any thoughts of his feelings for Bruce and what he’s going to tell Lois about today as he flies back to Metropolis and into his role as Superman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: [Bruce's suit](http://tinypic.com/m/k36vso/3), [Bruce's car (yes he totally bought the Spectre Aston Martin, BECAUSE HE CAN)](http://tinypic.com/m/k36vsm/3)
> 
> Also, sorry readers, I meant to get this posted last week, ran out of time before my vacation and then didn't have my laptop while on vacation. I'm still going to try to release two chapters this week. Thanks for the comments!


	11. Chapter 11

When Clark tells her, ending with a serious “it meant nothing,” Lois surprises him by laughing in his face.

When she controls herself to small giggles, she finally looks at him again – and breaks into another round of laughter.

“Clark, I’m sorry,” she gets out in between small hiccups of chuckles and breathing. “It’s just, he took you on a date.”

“What?” he asks, feeling every bit an idiot.

Lois wipes at the tears that have gathered in the corners of her eyes and then smooths a hand over her hair. She rests a small hand on his forearm and looks up at him. “Bruce took you on a date.”

He stares at her, stunned. 

She sighs and moves him so that they both sit on the sofa. “He invited you to a fundraiser—”

“I went there as press,” he protests.

“Then he spent his entire time with you, introducing you to Gotham elite, showing you off—"

“He wanted me to know who the players are, so I can write the expose later.”

“Then he took you to an office and proceeded to kiss you—”

“It wasn’t a date, it was an op!” he exclaims, running a hand through his hair. Begging her to understand. “He kissed me because we got caught, that’s the only reason.”

She levels a glance at him. “You’re telling me he didn’t enjoy it?”

“Why would he?” Clark asks.

“Think, Clark. Use your brain. You always notice more than you focus on. Did. He. Enjoy it?”

The stubborn determination Lois is looking at him with forces a sigh from him. It feels wrong. He already feels guilty for being kissed. For enjoying it. For…cheating.

“Clark,” she snaps, although he doesn’t sense anger in her emotions or body language. Her heartbeat is steady, if slightly elevated.

He closes his eyes and thinks back.

_“Clark, please work with me here.”_

Bruce sounds apologetic. It’s just an op. Maybe he’s hoping Clark isn’t going to deck him for what he’s about to do. Maybe he thinks Clark, being from Kansas, isn’t friendly to the LGBTQ community, to two men kissing. Maybe he just thinks Clark is still upset over their fight that fated night.

_—Clark’s eyes are still open—_

Bruce’s eyes had been squeezed tight, like he couldn’t bear to look at Clark. Maybe he’s gay or bi, but he can’t stand the thought of kissing Clark. Maybe he still harbors resentment for that day four years ago, for the lives Clark couldn’t – didn’t – save.

_—the flutter of eyelashes against his own—_

Bruce was shaking. Nerves? Adrenaline?

_—the firmness of his lips—_

It was a kiss, but it wasn’t a stage kiss. Maybe Bruce didn’t how to do anything else?

_—Bruce plunders his way through Clark’s defenses and slips him tongue—_

It’d been tentative. Thinking back, Clark had opened his mouth to the simplest pressure, a pressure that could have easily been ignored. He recalls, now, that Bruce’s heartbeat had ticked up. He’d thought it was the anxiety at being caught, or maybe, knowing Batman, the _thrill_ of being caught. But it had coincided with Clark opening his mouth, welcoming Bruce’s tongue into his own mouth, letting their tongues slide together, slick and hot.

_—simulating lust with heavy-lidded eyes—_

No, it hadn’t been simulated at all. Bruce’s eyes had been dilated and Clark now knows he smelled the faintest scent of arousal, felt Bruce’s breath puff against his lips.

He opens his eyes and looks into Lois’ kind green ones.

“I don’t know that it was about me,” he finally says. He shouldn’t out Bruce to Lois, though she has seen the paparazzi photos with men, the way he flirts with men as well as women at Wayne events. He suspects she knows what he’s suggesting; she already thinks Bruce has a crush on him, anyway.

She looks at him so gently, so understanding. He reaches out, slow, afraid he may be rejected. When he isn’t, he tucks the piece of hair that has fallen into her face behind her ear. She picks up his other hand, holding it to her mouth, the softest of kisses placed on his knuckle, on his palm, on each of his fingertips.

His heart aches.

“Kiss me, Clark,” she says, quiet, like she’s afraid of breaking the mood, before pulling his thumb into her mouth.

Tenderness and lust flash through him, bright like lightning. He pulls her into his lap with one hand on her hip before shifting them so that he’s lying above her on the couch as he kisses her like he’s drowning and she is his last gasp of oxygen. 

When they break apart, she’s smiling but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It feels like an ending. As he makes his way down her body, he wonders why.


	12. Chapter 12

Batman and Superman meet a week later. 

When he arrives at the cave, he finds Batman busy as usual, typing at the terminal. He’s in full regalia sans gloves, and Clark can feel the presence of the Bat, rather than any sense of Bruce Wayne, friend, awkward teammate, and rich man behind the scenes. He’s clearly just returned from patrol.

The flash drive used in the fundraiser op is plugged into the terminal and Clark tries – and fails – to not think about Bruce’s graceful hand in his hair.

He clears his throat to get Batman’s attention, even if he knows he’s had it since the moment he flew onto Wayne property.

Batman doesn’t look back at him, but he does begin talking as he clicks through documents thrown up on the large screen for Clark to read.

“Edge is a consummate business man. He leaves nothing to chance, recording his meetings, writing everything down, following through. His only precaution was the laptop not hooked up to a server and the encryption. Once I cracked that – a feat that took barely two hours and zero help from Oracle,” Bruce says this with disdain. “—It was all clearly laid out.”

“If it only took two hours, why am I here a week later?” Clark asks.

“I was busy.”

He rolls his eyes.

Batman spins around to face him. “I have other cases I’m working. Crime at the docks, a trafficking ring that’s recently surfaced. Barry asked me to do some labwork that CCPD doesn’t have the equipment to do for a case _he’s_ working on. Not everything is about you, Clark.”

Ouch. His testy tone suggests he caught Clark rolling his eyes. He responds in a civilized Superman voice, “I never said it was.”

He knows Batman is eyeing him with suspicion from behind his cowl, not because he’s cheating, but because he knows Bruce.

The other man sighs and pushes his cowl down and back, revealing sweat slick hair and a resigned expression. Bruce has decided to grace him with his presence after all.

“Truth be told,” he says after a minute’s silence. “Dick’s been staying here for the last couple of days. He returned to Blüdhaven today. I’ve been…distracted.”

Clark nearly chokes at the revealing information. From Bruce’s posture, he seems to expect to be chastised.

He steps forward and lays a friendly hand on Bruce’s shoulder until the other man looks up at him. “Time spent with your son is not a distraction.”

“He’s not my son,” Bruce grumbles, “you know that’s just for the press, for Bruce Wayne.”

“I have not known about him long, and I do not know him at all, but what you two have is clearly a father-son relationship, regardless of it being biological or not. You raised that boy. Sons push against their fathers and sometimes they don’t speak for long periods of time. But family can be found, and you have it.”

Clark doesn’t tell him how proud he is that they’re rebuilding after – his eyes skating past the suit of armor in its display case – _after_ , or how the fact that Dick and Bruce are speaking brings back his own sorrow at not getting to tell his father how much he loved him before the tornado swept him away. Bruce doesn’t need to hear it; he knows it.

He removes his hand, feeling colder for it, despite the Batsuit not putting out heat the way Bruce himself does.

“Now, what did you find?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh. Thanks for sticking with me and the continued comments!


	13. Chapter 13

Clark is stirring the mac and cheese one more time when Lois knocks.

Odd. She never knocks.

“Come in,” he calls, one hand holding the pot while the other uses a spatula to get all the gooey cheese out of the pot and into the casserole dish for baking. He looks up with a grin in time to see Lois shaking her head at his bare hand on the silvered metal of the sauce pan.

He’s humming a little to himself, barely paying attention to her as he finishes dinner with bread crumbs and extra cheese, sticking it in the oven. He takes a swipe at the cheese left over with his finger. It’s his Ma’s recipe and the paprika adds just the right kick. He washes his hands and pushes his glasses up his nose. He does hear the moment when her heartbeat stutters and begins beating faster. She must have seen the flowers, then.

But when he turns, Lois isn’t smiling the gently sweet smile he’s used to when he surprises her with dinner and flowers. Instead, her face is struggling to hold a smile that looks sad and wistful.

“Oh, Clark,” she breathes when his eyes meet hers finally.

He knows then. His own smile fades and he calmly turns back to the oven to set the timer. He suspects he’s going to need the reminder if he wants to avoid burning the apartment down.

“Sit down, Clark. Please,” Lois asks, quietly.

He does. 

She’s already sitting, and her eyes are slightly watery with unshed tears. He sees her lip tremble. Everything about her seems more stark in this moment, perhaps because she’s put her hair up in a bun, pulled back tight but messy, like she had thrown it up for the gym or for bed. It’s no less attractive on her, but it brings out the tiny wrinkles around her eyes, makes her cheeks look sharper. He notices a bag behind her, propped by the door. One of his Metropolis U sweatshirts is laying on top.

“I…” she trails off, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“It’s alright,” he says. He can feel his heart breaking, but he can’t stand to see her in pain.

She lets out the tiniest sob then, paired with a soft smile. “Oh, Clark,” she repeats.

She reaches out one hand, holding it open across the table for him. He places his hands around hers, noticing once more, how big he is compared to her. How, Kryptonian powers aside, he looks like he could break her bones. Funny, men around him his whole life have envied his size when they noticed the bulk he usually hid, yet Clark’s always felt too big for the world.

“I love you,” she says. “I want you to know that. This isn’t about not loving you, or you not giving me enough time. If anything, we are – were – too perfect. 

“Maybe that’s what went wrong. Perfection can’t last. What we had, romantically, was a bubble of time that had to burst.”

She takes a breath, her hand squeezing his. “I found you at a crucial point in your life. You finding out about your origins is tied up with me getting hurt by that robot. You saved me and you’ve kept doing it ever since. But I can’t…I can be friend, mentor, confidant to Clark Kent. I can be Clark’s equal. But Superman, what can I do for him? I can’t save him, I can’t teach him, I can’t fight beside him. That’s what a partnership is supposed to be.”

He bites back words, knowing she isn’t done yet. But he wants to say, _you saved me, you kept me going, you were there when no one else was_.

As though she can read his mind, Lois continues. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, and I won’t suggest I’m the first woman or person you’ve loved. But I was your first romantic _relationship_ ; you told me as much. Because, for the longest time, you couldn’t trust anyone with your secret. You couldn’t trust anyone to not fear some part of yourself. I discovered you and I didn’t give up because I was curious and I needed to know. That’s my failing.”

She swipes a strand of copper hair back behind her ear with her free hand as she gives a small smile. It hurts him to see her do it herself. “You fell head over heels because I didn’t flinch from what – _who_ – you are. I fell because I’d never seen someone so pure of heart, so willing to sacrifice themselves and for people they don’t even know. I fell because you were lost and maybe I thought I could help you – that I could save you. I gave you a name. You gave me exuberant love.

“But I’m not the only one anymore. You don’t only have me. Other humans, other people know you’re you. You’ve built a team of extraordinary people who can save this world, from external threats, maybe even from itself. I can write about it. But I can’t participate.”

He looks at her. “You went and got that spear. You flung it away and then went after it.”

“And had to be rescued. I suppose I could train, I could try to become a vigilante, to help you in your mission. But let’s be real; that’s not my skillset. You know how I hate the gym.” She gives a wry chuckle. “As a human, I could never match what your teammates and you can do.”

“Batman is human,” he protests.

“Forged in his own fire of heartbreak and determination. He’s been training for his role as protector of Gotham for over a quarter of a century.”

Clark sits and thinks, lets her words wash over him. She allows him.

“Do I get any say in this?” he finally asks.

“You can tell me what you’re feeling. You can tell me you never want to see me again – I’m sure you could easily work at any newspaper in the country after what you’ve written for The Planet. But no, you don’t get a say in if we break up. This is the best decision for both of us. I don’t mean to suggest this patronizingly. Most importantly, it’s what is best for me.

“I know you’re going to blame yourself. I can’t stop you from feeling that. But I want you to know, to one day take it to heart when I say, _this isn’t your fault_. I can’t be what you need. I may be what you want, but you _need_ a friend. You _need_ a partner who can go toe-to-toe with you. You need someone who can support all aspects of you, who can be your equal in all ways that matter, and not only one.”

“I don’t think someone like that exists,” he says softly. Each word feels like sandpaper on his tongue. His ears tune into the fight the mother and daughter who live below him are having, to the sound of Brad in 3C unchaining his bike for the start of his messenger shift. Anything but the hiccupped heartbeat sitting across from him. If they’re both hurting, why are they doing this?

“Clark,” she says. In that moment she reminds him of his mother; eyes kind, voice soft when she needs to deliver obvious but discomforting news. “You already have him. He’s only waiting on you.”

He reels back as fast as he can allow himself, without taking Lois’ hand with him. “Is this about Bruce? About all those ridiculous events? You know he doesn’t mean that, you know I’d never, I _told_ y—"

She instantly stops looking sad; her lips purse slightly, the line about her brow furrows, and she has that stubborn expression she takes with her to meet politicians and dignitaries. “Clark Kent. Do not belittle me by assuming I’m blind or stupid, or that I would not take you for your word. You told me about the kiss and I believe you when you said it was nothing, just cover."

She loses the anger as quick as it came. She reaches for his face, her thumb tracing his lips while she cradles his chin in her hands. “I also know you’re lying to yourself. I just don’t know why. I honestly wasn’t hurt by your receptiveness to his flirting. He’s a good-looking man, and knowing what we know…well, he’s complicated, but good.”

“I would never cheat on you, Lo,” Clark says, clenching his hand into a tight fist, willing her to understand, to see that Bruce is nothing to him, even as his own body betrays him and he hears a steady heartbeat a whole city over. 

No, Bruce is not nothing to him.

He slowly flattens his hand back out on the table.

She cocks her head at him. “I know that. It’s part of why I’m letting you go. You two have the chance for something truly,” she struggles for words for the briefest moment. “Truly epic. The stuff of movies. A partnership in every way – exactly what I can’t give you.”

She pauses again, and then grins impishly. “World’s Finest. Damn, I have got this naming thing _down_.”

He can’t help himself: he laughs. It’s a wet chuckle because there are tears in his throat, but it’s such a Lois thing to say. 

“I suppose it’s better than Blark,” he says, giving into her humor.

Her nose crinkles in disgust for a moment, likely imagining the portemanteu in print, before she sighs and says, “There’s my Clark.”

Lois stands, coming over to his side and enveloping him in a big hug. He feels it deep to his core, even as he hears a set of dual heartbeats, one slow and steady, the other still a little wobbly. He’s not ashamed to clutch her arm.

“This isn’t the end of us,” she says into his hair, chin resting on top of his head. “Lois and Clark are going to make _waves_ in the publishing world. I’m always going to be here for you; you’re my best friend. I love you. But I think,” she pauses. “I think he may be _in_ love with you. In his own way. And if he is, don’t you think that’s worth pursuing?”

She pulls back to look down at him. One hand reaches up to wipe away a tear threatening to fall with her thumb.

“I think it is,” she continues, placing a kiss on his forehead like a benediction. He grasps her tight around her small waist, burying his face in her chest, just breathing her in, knowing this will be the last time he can claim this intimacy.

Eventually they break apart in mutual agreement. He wants one final kiss, but he can’t ask it of her. She runs a hand through his hair, tugging it from its Superman style before stepping away. Lois slips the ring off her slim finger, setting it softly on the table. 

It stares at him, accusingly. 

“I kept that Smallville football jersey of yours, by the way. Girl’s gotta have some kind of keepsake. Not like it was going to fit him anyway.” She gives him a cheeky grin as she opens the door to leave.

“And,” she says, pausing in the doorway. “If you two ever have some kind of ceremony, I’d better damn well be the maid of honor.”

He smiles, helpless in the face of her conviction. “As if there could be another.”

She nods. Then she steps through his front door and lets it close behind her quietly; the end of one relationship, the beginning of another as friends.

Less than five minutes later – which he’s spent staring at his hands, keeping the sound of Lois getting into an Uber in one ear and the sounds of Bruce beating up a punching bag in the other – the oven dings.

He swipes his hand over his face, letting both individuals fade into the background of his hearing. He gets up and pulls the macaroni and cheese out of the oven. He grabs a hot pad and decides he’ll bring it downstairs to Sarah and her daughter.

He’s not hungry anymore.


	14. Chapter 14

Clark hasn’t slept yet when he meets Bruce in the cave the morning of the election. Two days before, a typhoon had hit Vietnam and he’s been busy ever since, finding people in the aftermath, rescuing them from flooding and building collapse, bring them to higher, dryer land. In some places, the flooding had been up to his own neck.

Diana had been with him, assisting in the government shelters, providing supplies and her love. She, of course, asked after Lois. The question made him uneasy; he wasn’t ready to share yet. He’d passed it off with a “you know Lois,” and a few comments about her ongoing story, a collaborative piece with Perry’s son, Richard White, on the ongoing tensions between the US and North Korea after the president’s August rhetoric. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely lying; she is fine, and he’s barely seen her. Lois has holed herself up in the Metropolis Public Library for the last two weeks, trying to earn herself a Ph.D. in Korea Studies it seems, based on the hours she’s devoting to the project. That said, he thinks it’s a way for her to avoid him without being rude. He’s done the same, throwing himself into Superman as often as he can, answering even minor calls.

She’d asked about Bruce, too, a shrewd expression on her lovely face. He can admit to himself that he’d taken advantage of a family’s dog barking three blocks over to get out of answering her too-knowing question.

He collapses into the chair at the desk next to Batman’s, a little less gracefully than Superman should. It’s only after sprawling he realizes the chair is new. Bruce has never had a second chair in the cave that he’s seen.

“You look like shit,” Bruce offers.

“You really know how to flatter a guy,” Clark drawls, barely rising to the bait. It’s not that he’s physically tired, but the toll of seeing hundreds of grateful faces, of dealing with tears – both from joy and pure, crushing sorrow – of knowing he can’t help rebuild the Vietnamese’s lives, that he has to rely on the government to help its people, well, natural disasters always leave him feeling wrung out.

Almost imperceptibly, Bruce’s face softens. The frown lines thin out, his eyes aren’t as crinkled in a stern glare, he tilts his head the smallest incline in a way that suggests genuine concern. He lets out an inquisitive noise, something that’s probably meant to be an apology as much as a request for more information.

Clark waves his hand, still half-slumped in the chair. It’s broad enough to accommodate his frame comfortably which leaves him with a sneaky suspicion that either Alfred or Bruce deliberately placed it there for him. It’s a touching thought; he can’t help but want it to have been Bruce’s idea, even as he’s sure it was Alfred’s.

“I’ll be fine, really,” he says, forcing himself to sit up straighter. It moves him further from Bruce; their knees had almost been touching, the way he’d spread himself out in the chair. 

Bruce was undoubtedly out most of the night on patrol, even knowing that today was going to be a big day in Gotham politics, that Bruce Wayne would need to be seen, even as Batman had to try to stop two men from corrupting politics further. If Bruce could do that, human as he was, Clark could pull himself together, separate his emotions from what they needed to do.

Bruce clears his throat and his voice is commanding though not gruff: part Bat, part exasperated teammate. “I need you ready for this, Superman. We’ve got thirty minutes before polls open in Gotham. Take a shower, get the grime off.” His hand makes an aborted movement toward Clark’s face, before it adjusts to mime brushing off dirt from his own cheek. “I’ll have Alfred bring some breakfast down.”

Clark tilts his own head, considering. Bruce lifts his eyebrows, nonchalantly pointing down the hallway where the gym resides, his elbow resting on the desk. He’s about to stand when Bruce’s expression shifts, darkening into something definitely more _Bat_ and he says, “Son, don’t make me—"

It happens in the briefest of instances, a flash of hot desire coursing through him, his hands tightening on the desk chair’s armrests, a shudder passing from his head to toes and back up again pooling in his groin, until he’s on his feet, already halfway to the hall before he realizes it.

The hot flash of _want_ and _yes, please_ , passes as quick as it came, though the desire lingers in his gut, now mixed with embarrassment taking in Bruce’s startled look that is quickly turning calculating. He tosses a thumb over his shoulder, “I’m just gonna…yeah…”

“There’s plenty of towels and new soap in the closet,” Bruce says with an amused twitch to his lips, before Clark puts on a burst of superspeed and finds himself in the large bathroom, clutching the sink.

He looks at himself in the mirror, ears tipped red, a flustered expression on his face. Well, that is new, he thinks. _Or not_ , his traitorous mind responds, recalling every time Bruce has called him _son_ in a way not at all paternal.

Clarks tells himself to get it together. He takes in the bathroom. It’s large, with a tiled floor, a bathroom stall hidden in a corner, and a communal shower area. It might be exactly like one found in a club locker room, but for the luxurious fixtures, the rainfall shower heads and the large fluffy towels Clark finds in a linen closet, big enough for men of his and Bruce’s size to still be comfortably bundled in. He does indeed find a new package of bar soap, which he unwraps once he’s divested of his uniform.

That at least is clean; Kryptonian fibers seem inured to most Earth substances. They get on his clothes, but a brush of his hand or a rinse of water and they’re gone. The outfit doesn’t ever end up smelling or feeling of sweat, either. It’s certainly convenient.

He turns on the faucet, luxuriating for a minute in the hot water that instantly bursts out and plasters his hair to his head, rivulets falling from his eyelashes and nose. He takes the bar of soap, smelling of nothing but a vague chemical sense of _clean_ , and runs it over his body, soaping up chest hair, running it down his legs, over his back, scrubbing his pits. He does his best not to linger over his genitals, performing the barest perfunctory cleansing because Bruce is right down the hall and he’s already half-hard with that knowledge and this _simply isn’t the time_ , even if he idly wonders if Bruce would hear him.

He then flounders for a moment, casting his eyes over the shower area until they catch on a shelf that holds two bottles. Sure enough, they’re shampoo and conditioner and when he flips open the top on the shampoo, he finds himself overwhelmed by the gentle yet obvious smell of Bruce. It’s almost – he sniffs again – it’s peppermint. Not akin to Christmas but like peppermint tea.

He pours a dollop into his hand and studiously ignores how his cock is now rising further and how, if he weren’t putting on his uniform again which constricts and hides physical reactions like untimely erections, his body would be revealing entirely too much about his feelings for Bruce to the man.

He finishes with his hair quickly and turns the water off. He dries himself efficiently with one of the towels, rubbing it through his hair in an attempt to ensure it’s not sopping wet. He gives himself a quick shave and there’s something about Bruce’s mirror that allows him to do it more evenly, more finely than the mirror in his own apartment. He rubs a hand over his face and feels not the slightest bit of hair, even to his own sensitive fingers.

All told, by the time he returns to the main part of the cave, running his hands through his curls in a vain attempt to tame them without the product he uses, it’s been less than fifteen minutes.

The smell of coffee hits his nose and he’s so grateful and eagerly reaching for the cup he knows is prepared just for him by Alfred, he hardly notices Bruce choking mid-sip on his as he exits the hallway. He puts it down to the temperature of the coffee – it’s just how he likes it, which is probably too hot for Bruce’s human tongue.

He pales, too, when Clark steps closer, takes in a sharp breath. Then he sees the platter of scones, bacon, and fruit and Clark gives a happy sigh as he digs in, Bruce’s reactions set aside. Five pieces of bacon in, he turns to Bruce who is still holding up his coffee mug in front of his mouth, staring at him with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. He swallows. 

“You were right,” he says. 

Bruce scoffs. “Of course, I was. I’m a detective. I raised a teenager. I can tell when someone is hangry.”

Clark laughs, grinning ear-to-ear. “Thank Alfred for me,” he says, gesturing to the tray filled with food that Bruce hasn’t seemed to touch. “Also, I’m pretty sure he meant some of this for you, you know.”

“Hmm,” is the reply he receives, as Bruce finally takes another sip of his coffee.

Clark hands him a scone. “Eat,” he commands.

“I thought I was giving the orders around here? It is my home after all,” Bruce says dryly, before taking a bite.

There’s that delicious shudder again, burning him from the inside out. He forces it down.

They continue to eat in companionable silence until the food is gone. Clark makes sure Bruce gets at least half, slowing down his own eating and pushing pieces of fruit towards the other man. Bruce probably knows what he’s doing, but he maintains his innocent Clark Kent face and continues shoving bites of scone in his own mouth whenever Bruce gives him side-eye.

Eventually, a timer, somewhere, ticks down and Batman says, “The polls are open.”

Seven am in Gotham and two more hours before the National City polls open.

“When will Bruce Wayne vote?” he asks.

“When Batman is done. One vote won’t make a difference, if I don’t get there.”

“For a man attempting to save democratic principles, you sound jaded. Haven’t you read Putnam?”

“If this is your way of telling me Bruce Wayne is not socially engaged enough, I’ve got at least ten philanthropic organizations to introduce you to, one of which’s name matches my own,” Bruce states, sardonic.

Clark makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “I’m not talking about Wayne, or the Bat. I know what both of them do for Gotham, for the world. I mean _you_ , Bruce.”

“Look, statistically speaking, Clark, one—”

“I’m not talking about statistics. I mean the impact of Bruce Wayne voting. Of the impact you’ve had, starting this League. Of knowing that Batman has done good, even when it seems like one criminal begets another in their place. One man _can_ have an impact. And if you believed that, more than statistics, I think you’d truly realize the power that you, _Bruce_ , has, above and beyond Wayne or the Bat.”

Batman looks back at him, but it’s Bruce who responds, a minute later. “Sometimes, I want to punch you in your perfect, hope-bearing teeth.”

Clark smiles, gently. “You’d just hurt your hand.”

“Thus, why I resist the temptation.” But Bruce isn’t mad at him.

Bruce turns back to the terminal and Batman is back, mask over his face, if only metaphorically. “Oracle wrote the code that will fix the lapse in security of the voting machines. It’ll be sent through as an upgrade, essentially, a patch that will keep Edge’s source code from overriding the machines and ensuring that he can’t nullify the ballots as screened, counting Garcia votes as Dent votes. Of course, the difficult thing was figuring out a way to cover all pattern possibilities; after all, Edge isn’t stupid enough to rewrite every Garcia vote. An entire district one hundred percent voting for one candidate is simply unheard of; elections officials could not ignore that. Even seventy percent would raise suspicions. Nor could he simply add a significant number of ballots as electioneers keep physical count as well as machine count of the people who enter the voting booth. So there has to have been an algorithm employed that would change some percent of Garcia votes into Dent votes, taking into consideration the actual amount of Dent votes, at a level that would mean a decisive win but not an impossibly large one. The same thing for Larson and his opponent in National City.

“Some districts vote more in the morning, others more at night. Oracle and I figured that after three hours of voting in each city, any algorithm would have identified the base percent of Dent and or Larson voters based on likely voters and registered party members. This is the most likely time, then, for Edge to issue his source code. We need to get ours out before then – but even though the code is a patch, it has to take account for the pattern Edge will use, or it could miss it and the code could still succeed. This gives us a limited window to launch. Thus, Oracle’s patch is in two phases. One that will send now, and the other, later, that will have identified and accounted for any possible set of patterns Edge’s code might utilize.”

Clark’s been focused more on Bruce this whole time than his words – it’s easy enough to register what he’s saying, to parse it, and analyze it in light of their conversation previous where Bruce told him what the flash drive had revealed. But Bruce, the _Batman_ , is engaging like this, despite his near monotone voice as he explains specifics. His eyes are alight with interest, his lips pursed in concentration whenever he takes a moment to breathe in between sentences, making the cleft in his chin more prominent, a furrow in his brow twitching, a tick of excitement even a master of his body cannot control. He’s an astonishingly handsome man; even more so when he’s moved to passion.

Of course, all this talk is for Clark’s benefit, his editorial approach. He knows that, if he weren’t here, Bruce would be sitting in silence, perhaps at most with Oracle in his ear, each executing computer commands silently.

Batman looks back at him, obviously waiting for a response. 

“Yes?” he questions, delayed a moment by his own thoughts. “Yes,” he concludes when he recalls what Batman asked. It’s time.

Batman pulls up a code box and types a command in, pointer finger pressing down on the return key to execute.

The terminal makes a whirring sound and then static crosses the screen and consolidates into a video image.

Harvey’s face appears. Unlike his usual promotional pictures, this time it’s his left side that’s mostly facing the camera. He hasn’t tried to cover the scars, either. They’re deep, still red, almost like they happened a month ago, rather than five years. His teeth show in a grotesque manner – whatever amount of handsomeness Harvey has maintained post Joker is gone in this moment.

“Hello, Bats.”

It takes Clark a split second before realizing it’s a recording. He sees Bruce pull the cowl on; Batman has been requested and Batman leaves no call unanswered. His mouth is a grim line.

“Congrats on figuring out Edge’s plot. Not that I doubted you would; that’s why this here contingency plan.” Dent fold his hands, resting them on his crossed knee. He’s wearing a suit a unique shade of deep green that almost looks gray. It jars with the red lines marking his face and left hand. “Edge, well, Edge is an opportunist. I thought to use that to my advantage. Bats, we go way back don’t we? I’m sure you understand that this has been building since that fated day you refused to put down the Joker, thus sacrificing ten Gotham lives and my face. 

“I learned something that day: Fate is a cruel mistress. We are but knots on her web, to be cut as suits her convenience. Despite that,” here Dent’s body turns showing more of his unmarked side, almost as though he’s at war with himself, that each half of him is a persona, “I tried to do it right, one more time. To win the people’s vote, to make this city great again. To return to a time before vigilantes and clowns.”

His head tilts again, once more revealing his scars. His white hair is sticking up at odd angles and his eye twitches. “Here we are, though. Neither of us can let the other win. So, in the showdown between democracy and corruption, between Two-Faced Harvey Dent and The Gotham Batman, it’s up to Fate to decide. A fifty-fifty chance.”

His mouth twists up in an imitation of a smile and there’s a manic glint to his eyes. Clark shivers, despite himself. Harvey is nothing more than a man, but there’s something twisted, something wrong in that man.

Batman is furiously typing, but so far, he doesn’t appear to be accomplishing what he wants, based on his frustrated grunts and the multiple windows of computer code that pop up and then vanish before another takes its place. The video keeps streaming.

“You’ve activated a code to override the protocols set in place by Edge to ‘stuff the ballots’ as it were. If you execute the override, know that this will trigger two sets of bombs: one in Gotham and one in National City. I’ve done some research of my own, enough to know that your plane can travel faster than commercial air, but it’ll still take you three hours to get to National City. Each bomb is on a timer; the instant you send that override code, you’ve got three point five hours to find and disable the bombs. That gives you enough time to save one city or the other. Your beloved Gotham or the biggest city on the west coast. You can’t make it to both in enough time. 

“And no, waiting to send the code, for the end of the night, allowing the polls to clear of people won’t work. Edge’s code stands to rewrite the votes sometime this afternoon and unless you send your code before, you won’t be able to stop the ballot stuffing.

“You’ve got two options. Let Harvey Dent win and democracy fall or save one city’s citizens from a bomb at their polling place. But you can’t save both. What kind of a blow will it do to National City’s belief in democracy when its citizens are killed trying to vote? Think of the mandate Larson will ride in on – if only the city had listened to his plan for security before now, maybe all those poor, poor people wouldn’t be dead.” Dent makes a moue with his mouth, faux and comical if not for the very serious implication of his threat. 

He takes out a coin, the same Clark had seen him flip once before on the streets of Gotham. “It’s democracy or the people, Bats!” He flips the coin in the air, starring after it, a wide parody of a grin on his face, an excited look, almost child-like. “Shall we dance with Fate?”

Dent starts laughing, a husky rasp and the video cuts off before the coin lands.

Both he and Batman continue to watch the screen for a moment after, Batman’s hands finally still on the keyboard.

“Were you able to trace his location?” Clark asks, eventually.

“No. The video was bouncing off too many IPs. I could figure it out, but that’s not important right now.”

Clark crosses his arms. “What are you going to do? We can’t let Edge win, but we can’t let innocent voters die, either.”

Batman remains silent for some time, but Clark knows his brain is calculating any number of possibilities, trying to figure out a way to do both, before coming up against Dent’s deadline.

He finally spins around, facing Clark. Everything about him is tense, ready for a fight.

“Five years ago, the Batman worked almost entirely alone. Robin was green, young—”

Clark’s eyes slide to the memorial. He’s known all along, of course, maybe not the name of Batman’s sidekick, maybe not the how, or the specific who, but he’s known.

“—Dick was busy with his own life, Barbara, too, trying to figure out a new life in Blüdhaven, trying to escape my shadow. I didn’t let them in, when they asked, when The Joker went viral with the ferry bombing. I didn’t accept their help and I let eleven people die at The Joker’s hands, including someone I’d been falling in love with, including my second son.”

It’s a punch to Clark’s gut, even as Batman continues speaking in that deliberately monotone, emotionless voice, as he had when speaking about Gordon, when he’d told Clark about Barbara, about Oracle.

_My second son._

Clark’s heart aches for the man in front of him.

“—Barbara had come back to Gotham, despite my refusal, was going to go out as Batgirl the night Rachel died, when Harvey suffered his accident, and he showed up, knowing, somehow,” here Batman clenches his fists, like his emotions are bleeding out through his hands, like he can stall the tide if only he keeps them closed, “and he shot her.

“Two days later, he killed Robin. And I was alone.”

Clark’s seen enough PTSD to know now isn’t the time to touch Bruce though his arms ache to do so. To cradle a man broken and blaming himself, existing on survivor’s guilt as keenly as Kal-El, Last Son of Krypton does.

Instead he breathes heavier than normal, in and out to a four count, and listens as Bruce’s eventually aligns, using Clark’s as a gauge.

Batman shudders and Clark sees the sad twist to his face, eyes cast into the depths of the cave, one fist still clenched tight. It’s more expression than he’s used to seeing while Bruce is wearing the cowl and he reaches out, metaphorically.

“You’re not alone, Batman,” Superman says, and Clark hopes Bruce knows he means it about him, too.

Batman’s gaze returns, pausing on the Robin suit, before turning to Clark. “No, I’m not. And that’s what Dent doesn’t know. He’s stuck in a moment that happened five years ago, like Batman has been. The League isn’t public yet, so he probably doesn’t suspect Superman is here with Batman, that the Bat would allow a meta into Gotham – because I didn’t for so long.”

He pauses, then asks, “How fast can you fly to National City?”

Superman grins. “I can be there in about an hour.”

Batman looks at him appraisingly. “I knew you were fast but…Mach 3?”

“Thereabouts. I’ll try to hurry.”

A wry grin twists Batman’s lips. “We really do need to have a run off between you and Barry.” Then he’s all business again. “I’m going to wait thirty minutes and then send the second patch. Screw the pattern recognition component, I’ll get Oracle to do some coding on the spot, make sure we catch it in the moment. I need you to go to National City, find that bomb. He’s obviously put it at a polling place. I want you to search every one. I won’t discount him planting more than one incendiary device. Then I’ll need you back here to scan Gotham polling places and to help Oracle code while I handle the Gotham bomb.”

“Why not just let me find it now?”

“This is still my city, Superman,” he growls, but there’s no heat behind it, only conviction. “I need to let Dent know he can’t fuck with Gotham and not suffer the wrath of the Bat. He wants a showdown, he’s going to get one. I just have more friends than he does.”

Clark nods, pulling down one curl and straightening his cape. He lets the mantle descend, his face erase the lines of Clark Kent, reporter. As he’s leaving the cave, he hears Batman placing a call on the communicator. Oracle answers.

“Blackbird?”

“Hope you’re awake, Oracle, we’ve got some fast coding to do.”

“I am now. Give me five and I’ll be at my desk.”

Clark listens to their conversation, mostly quiet, but with interspersed bits of almost frantic dialogue using words like “compiling,” “SQL injection,” “append,” “log,” and “the syntax highlighting”. Batman lets him know the patch has been launched shortly before he passes over his Ma at the halfway point. He doesn’t even spare a glance; she’s safe today, her heartbeat steady in Smallville. 

He comes to a stop, hovering over National City an hour and five minutes after he left Gotham. He pulls up the city’s map Batman sent via communicator, letting him know the location of every polling place in the city limits, every church, every elementary school, or other county building being used. He searches in a grid pattern, starting with the northern side of the city and works his way down.

It’s unsurprising when he find a pipe bomb located in a voting machine in a downtown polling district located in a historically black Baptist church. If it went off, it would affect one of the most liberal – and thus likely to vote against Larson – districts, as well as decimating the community that is mostly black and Latino voters. He considers some of the additional data Batman sent along, and thinks, not only would it have destroyed the surrounding area, but it may very well have started a gang war. Dent did his research.

He sets down to a crowd of ooo’s and ahh’s. then someone shouts out, “What’s Superman doing here? He ain’t no National City resident!”

Superman looks at them all, with placating hands. “There is a risk to your safety at this polling place. I would like you all to stand on the other side of the street while I speak to the election officials.”

The crowd begins to press back at him, the people at the front of the line putting on stubborn faces. 

“Oh, no,” says one woman, near the front, “I’m not letting even Superman stand in my way to vote. I have a right!”

Another shouts, “You let the Capital blow up, well I ain’t letting you blow me up, Supes!”

A chorus starts up and Clark stares at them, a bit bewildered. He hadn’t expected resistance. Normally, people are glad to see him and prompt to do as he asks. 

A cop comes up from the other side of the street, taking an interest in the proceedings. “There a problem here,” he asks Superman, keeping a suspicious eye on the people in line. Clark notes a woman is wading her way through the line, coming to the front door of the church.

“No, sir,” he says. “Not with these fine people. Only there’s a threat inside I need to take care of before people get hurt.”

“Interference!”

“ACLU says you can’t block a polling place!”

“City law says no picketing within fifty yards of a polling place, get your politics away from here, Superman!”

The woman, in her mid-thirties and in a gray suit, comes out of the church, crossing her arms over her chest. Her badge tells him her name is Midge and she’s in charge. “Mr. Superman. Officer Bagley,” she says, glancing at the name plate on the cop’s chest. “I will not have you disrupting these people’s right to vote. What is going on?”

Superman tries to pull her aside, but Midge isn’t having any of it. He internally sighs, not wanting to cause a bigger scene or risk hurting anyone. “Ma’am, I have it on good data, including my own eyes,” here he taps at his temple to suggest his x-ray vision – it usually gets the point across. “That there is a device inside this building that threatens to take out the whole city block. I would like to dismantle it before the perpetrator finds a way to set it off.”

He sees a few of the closest people in line blanch and start whispering down the line. The cries about interference come to a stop. The officer next to him also looks startled and calls in a code to his dispatch. Clark can hear the sirens start up at the station, two miles away.

Midge looks him up and down, like she’s facing an errant child, rather than Superman before she nods and gestures him inside the building. They walk through to disgruntled and intrigued rumblings from those waiting in line. He casts his glance around and identifies the individual machine before he makes it past the registration table. He points to it.

“Huh,” says Midge. “We’ve been having issues with that machine all this morning. Alright, give me a moment.”

He waits, attempting not to fidget, concerned someone is going to take a picture on their phone, that it will go viral and make its way back to Dent that Batman has help. After a conference amongst the election officials that he tunes out deliberately, Midge comes back to him, just as he hears police pulling up outside. 

“Here’s what we want you to do. I don’t want anyone escorted out of the building and I don’t want police in here. This city has an ugly history with voter suppression. So, we’re going to allow you to walk over there and take the machine. Like I said, it hasn’t been working all morning, so no votes have been cast using it. Take it and go. I don’t care what you do with it from there, other than that it doesn’t go off and affect this city. I’ll file the reports with city officials and state election auditors. Go. Now,” she says, emphatically.

The other volunteers keep the line back and clear the immediate room back to the registration table as he strides forward, lifting the machine from the floor. With a nod to the people gathered in the room, he takes it right outside the church backdoors, held open by two volunteers, and lifts off into the sky. Ensuring it’s not laced with anything damaging, once he’s above city clearance level, he throws it into the air and vaporizes it with his heat vision. There’s a boom that probably startles many in the city, but no debris big enough to hurt anything falls back to the city.

He floats back down to skyline level and completes his grid search, finding no other bombs. He taps the communicator.

“All clear,” he says.

“Some pretty fireworks over NC, Big Blue,” Oracle says, and he can hear the grin in her voice.

“Don’t celebrate yet, Oracle,” comes Batman’s voice.

“How’s Gotham looking?” Superman asks, already turning face to fly back east. 

“Just get here so I can protect my city,” growls Batman. 

He smiles but puts on a boost of speed. He gets back to Gotham, just as alerts on his communicator start coming in about Superman in National City and the explosion above the city.

“You’re going to have to move fast,” he says to Bruce.

“I see it,” is the response. “I’m already on my way into town. Scan it and then get down to the cave. Oracle’s going to need some assistance soon.”

Superman floats above Gotham, under the clouds, but above the smog that collects from Ace Chemicals down by the river. He does the same grid search, based on the polling locations, registering the roar of the Batmobile just as he finds the location of Dent’s bomb.

“Fifty-third and Bravada Street.”

He takes off for the lake house, not pausing as he flies over Batman’s vehicle. A part of him wants to fly to the bomb, stop it like he did the National City one, ensure Batman has no chance of being hurt, but he has to trust Bruce.

He flies through the waterfall, unsure if Oracle or Alfred opened the cave entrance for him and he sits down at the terminal just as Oracle lets out a small gasp as another video pops up on screen.

It’s Harvey again.

“Seems like you’ve got some new friends, Bats. Hello, Superman,” he says, slow and purposeful, staring straight into the camera, like he can see him sitting at the desk. Then the feed cuts out again.

“Oracle,” he questions, “was that live?”

“No, pre-recorded like the last one. I’m going to have to add some additional security measures to the terminal. But look.”

Clark clicks through and finds live news footage from a helicopter and gathered at Fifty-third and Bravada, a small elementary school, is not only a line of voters, but Batman engaged in battle with what seems like ten men in swat gear. They’re clearly not SWAT though, and Bruce knocks one out with a stinger – a taser small enough to be thrown and letting its electrical shock out on contact – just as the man holds up a gun to a volunteer’s head.

He moves the footage over to another screen as he pulls up the coding box, typing in the commands Oracle sends him, even as most of his attention is on the screen where Batman fights to get into the poll place while keeping civilians safe.

“Will he be alright?” He mostly means because the Bat isn’t used to fighting in broad daylight – even if daylight today in Gotham is a dreary rain-soaked one. Still, he does seem to be able to use every shadow and alcove of the surrounding area as he takes each armed man down.

“You know Blackbird. He won’t let a single civilian get hurt. He’ll complete his mission.” There’s a pause and then Clark swears he can hear the grin that must be on Oracle’s face over the comm. “But it’s sweet you’re worried about him.”

He sighs.

The fight vanishes inside the building and all he can see is cops keeping people calm and corralled. No one is leaving though, all refusing to let a fight even involving the goddamned Batman keep them from voting. There’s still more people standing on the other side of the police blockade, though Clark isn’t sure if their people who were on their way to vote or merely spectators.

A link pops up on the screen. “Click it,” Oracle says.

He does and grainy, shaky iPhone footage shows Bruce has put down the last attacker and has opened a polling machine. There’s chatter in the video, coming from the citizens still standing in the school lobby, but he ignores it in favor of watching Batman hunch over the machine. He can’t see what the man is doing from the video, but his own pulse increases dramatically, knowing Bruce is staring a bomb down.

“It’s good, this is easy for him,” comes Oracle’s soothing voice, though he stretches his hearing out over the comm and can tell her heartrate has ticked up, too.

“Is…Robin there?” he asks, quiet. He suspects Dick doesn’t go by that anymore, but it’s what Clark knows.

There’s an almost static-like noise – probably the earpiece being resituated or someone getting up and coming over, and then Dick’s voice, low and tense. “I’m here, Superman. It’s alright. I’ve seen him figure out much bigger bombs.”

It doesn’t do much to ease Clark’s own concerns for Bruce whose body is not impervious to bomb blasts like his own, but he’s glad Barbara has someone, that Dick is there for both her and Bruce. He wonders if Bruce knew his son was only feet away all this morning.

He figures Bruce always knows.

There’s what seems to be like a cheer, and then the iPhone footage swerves and goes dark.

It’s a dark, silent two minutes while all three sit on the comms waiting. The helicopter video shows nothing more exciting around the building, doesn’t catch the Bat leaving, but Bruce wouldn’t let it if he could at all avoid it.

“It’s done,” finally comes Batman’s gruff voice, modulator working well.

Two sighs of relief match his own.

“Oracle?” Batman asks and Clark can hear the sound of the Batmobile starting up, a monsterous, military sound.

“All patched, boss. Big Blue’s a quick learner.”

That gets a grunt, though of agreement, approval, or merely acknowledgement, Clark doesn’t know.

“I’ll monitor the machines for a while, still, but I think you two can take the rest of the day off,” Oracle says, the smile back in her voice.

Silence. Batman has turned off his comm.

“Well, _you_ can take the day off at least, Big Blue,” says Dick with a laugh in his voice. “Birdwatcher out.”

He hears the sound of a disconnect from the comm, but still hears Oracle’s light heartbeat.

“Oracle?”

“You and, uh, Lois. You broke up, yeah?”

He blinks, as though the woman can see him. Hell, maybe she can. He’s never focused on finding all of Batman’s hidden cameras. He doesn’t ask how she knows. These Bats have a way of knowing things that are seemingly impossible to know. He sighs, rubbing his fingers along the bridge of his nose, staring at the keyboard in front of him. “Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry,” Barbara says. “She seems great.”

“Thanks,” he says, quiet. “She is. It’s not…it’s not _fine_. But, you know. It will be. And in case you’re asking for Batman, it won’t interfere with League business.”

“I wasn’t asking for Batman,” she responds and he’s almost curious enough to ask _why then_ , but she continues, “Oracle, out,” and this time there’s no sound left on the comm system.

Clark sits and waits. He pulls up several feeds of news shows. The national news hasn’t picked up the information yet, though Clark bets a breaking news ticker will come across the screen soon, given the knowledge of Superman in National City is bursting across social media and the internet news sites like _Politico_. His own phone rings, probably Perry wanting to know where Clark is, but he ignores it. Half an hour later, on the noon news on Galaxy, there’s footage of Bruce Wayne, casual in black suit pants, a blue polo, and a black trench coat to keep the rain off, waving at fans, media, and voters alike as he goes into a poll booth. Perhaps ironically, it’s one of the few non-electronic polling spots Gotham has left.

When Bruce still doesn’t return over an hour later, Clark begins to feel weird sitting in his chair waiting and goes looking for him. He finds Batman hanging out with the downtown gargoyles again. He’s standing instead of crouched, arms hanging down by his sides, which suggests Batman is simply surveying his city, rather than following up on further leads.

“Harvey’s in the wind,” Batman tells Superman. “I checked out his Gotham home, the hotel where the campaign is hosting its event tonight, I looked for the tracker Wayne left on his car. Nothing.”

“Do you think, if he wins, he’ll be back?” Clark asks. “It would mean he’d won it legitimately, if he does.”

“Exit polls are already indicating Garcia with a decent margin. It’s unlikely.”

Clark nods. “I’m sorry.”

Batman grunts, a question.

“About your…friend. I can’t imagine that kind of betrayal.”

Batman turns to him. “You can’t,” he says, in as dry a voice as the modulator can manage. “You’re talking to the man who tried to have you killed. Who wanted to do it with his own hands.”

Clark feels his brows pinch together, a frown on his face. “That’s different and you know it. I also told you, it’s forgotten. Forgiven. In the past.”

“Different, how?” Batman gives a frustrated growl and clicks off his modulator. “Because Harvey and I fucked? You think I’m upset about this, maybe regretting going against him because we dated? Did you know I also had sex with his fiancé? That Brucie Wayne is as shitty a friend as he is man and father?”

Hearing those words come from Bruce’s mouth shocks Clark. Not the words themselves; he’s heard Batman swear more than that in the few months since he’s been back. Rather the open acknowledgement, the vitriol and lack of control Batman is exerting in front of him. 

He holds his hands up, placating. “You sound like you think you deserved this.”

Batman turns away from him so fast, Clark’s surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “Leave,” Batman commands.

Clark ignores him, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back against the roof access door. “He made these decisions. Whatever put him in The Joker’s path, whether you think you failed to save him or his fiancé, whatever happened five years ago, this was all Harvey’s choice. _He_ sought out Edge. He knew Edge’s plan was bound to fail and _he_ put bombs in the path of innocent civilians today. _He_ hired goons to try to take out Batman, to take hostages. He may talk about fate and random chance, but everything that happened, he worked to plan it. He _chose_ it. The man is clearly traumatized by his experience, but it doesn’t excuse his behavior. It’s not your fault, B.”

Batman is silent, his back as illustrative as a brick wall.

He tries another tactic after letting the silence linger. At least Bruce hasn’t told him to go again. “Do you ever hate me?”

Batman’s shoulders flinch, like the words physically hurt. He glances back at Clark, though. “For what?” Bruce asks, seeming genuinely curious. There’s even a lilt of surprise in his otherwise flat tone.

“For not stopping him. The Joker.”

He watches as somehow, Bruce’s face grows harder, more expressionless under the mask.

“It’s just, since I came back, especially since we started this case, I’ve come to see how much he hurt you. Hurt everyone you love. I’ll probably never know the full extent.”

Bruce remains silent, staring off into the jungle of lights that can be seen that make up Gotham in the rain.

“All that chaos, all that pain, and I was off in Alaska or Maine and didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.” He lets his arms fall to his side with a heavy, mournful sigh. “I’d hate me. All it took for me was a kernel of fake news and I was ready to take you down. I never stopped to think you had a family, that you’d been hurt. That you had a reason to fear me. Despise me. You said it yourself and I didn’t _get_ it: you have a bad history with freaks dressed like clowns.”

Batman continues to avoid his gaze, still starring off like he’s miles away – or maybe years. Clark accepts it as confirmation after several minutes have passed, and he begins to float, ready to leave, unable to atone for the second time he let inaction make him complicit in tragedy.

Batman’s voice stops him. “I wouldn’t—” He lets out a frustrated noise that sounds like a growl before his hands come up to shove off the cowl, hair instantly dampening in the mist. He doesn’t quite look at Clark, but he isn’t _not_ looking either. More like he checks to make sure Clark is still there but then turns away as though he can maintain emotional distance as long as he doesn’t have to look at the man who failed him.

“I wouldn’t have let you help,” rasps Bruce.

Clark waits, fingers itching to touch, to take some of the man’s pain.

“I told you, I’d rejected everyone by then. Even before,” he takes a hissing breath in through his teeth, before pushing the name out on an exhale, “ _Jason_ died. I was upset with Dick. Falling in love with my best friend and my ex’s girl. Even Jason, a fucking teenager,” he laughs, bitter, “thought I’d gone off the deep end. He didn’t even know about my background with Harvey. The kid just couldn’t imagine, all the women he saw in Brucie’s life, why I’d go after one taken. Maybe, if he’d lived to be old enough, he’d have learned some people only want what they can’t have.”

Another chuckle, this one somehow more bitter than the last.

“The Joker told me once. ‘They’re only as good as the world allows them to be.’ He meant to corrupt me and I proved him right. I haven’t seen him since that night. I don’t know if he’s dead; I doubt it.” Bruce tilts his head back, letting the mist settle on his face, making his eyelashes darker than night, the greasepaint smear a little around the eyes. “I feel like he’s been watching me these last five years, laughing. I did exactly what he wanted.”

Clark can’t contain himself anymore. He closes the five steps between them, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder. He wants to do so much more, to take Bruce into his arms, to tell him it’s alright, to kiss him until they’re both crying. He only tightens his hand, giving a friendly squeeze, encouraging Bruce to look at him instead of up into the sky.

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe you did. For a while. But you climbed back. Like Batman has done every time. You didn’t kill me. You saved my mother. Christ, you saved the _world_ , Bruce. We all have things to atone for, but you can’t let it eat you alive.”

He pauses. “I didn’t know Jason. I feel like I barely know anything about you, Bruce. But I know you have a son who wants to be in your life again. I know you’ve made friends with the League members. Hell,” he chuckles, “Arthur even complimented you to me the other week. _Arthur_.”

Bruce continues to gaze at him. Even the mist is clearing up and the sun is starting to peak out from behind a few clouds, reflecting in the water droplets clinging to the paint around his eyes, the one sliding off his nose. His hair is plastered to his forehead. The effect gives him an eerie, ethereal look, like an avenging angel come to life.

Clark _wants_.

He continues. “And I’m your friend. You better believe, I’m going to call you on your bullshit.” That gets a snort and Clark smiles. “Laugh all you want. I know you secretly enjoy it.” He lets his voice be smug, even as Bruce rolls his eyes.

He grows serious once more. He moves his hand up Bruce’s shoulder just enough to rest his thumb on the inch of skin between his costume neck and his ear. Clark allows his thumb to stroke once, twice, feeling the contrast of WayneTech performance fabric and the cool damp skin that hides an underlying heat and pulsing beat. He imagines the uptick in heartrate is actually _for_ him, not just because Bruce isn’t comfortable with him so close to his personal space. “I’m going to be here, Bruce. If you can forgive me what I let happen, why can’t you forgive yourself?”

Bruce brings his hand up to close around Clark’s, stopping the movement of his thumb. He thinks he detects the smallest tilt of his head towards Clark’s hand before he gently takes the hand off his neck and lowers it down by his side. It’s kind enough that Clark isn’t sure if it’s a rejection – like when Bruce had stepped away from him at Harvey’s fundraiser – or if it’s merely Bruce trying to wrap himself back up, like he thinks he’s spilled too much _Bruce_ around Clark. 

He then lifts both his hands to his eyes, rubbing them and smearing the greasepaint worse. “National City could use its own hero. This bicoastal thing might be easy for you – you fly faster than sound. It just makes me tired.”

Clark smiles. “I’ll let you know if I ever have one in mind.”

The cowl goes back on. “Will Brucie see you tonight?” Batman grunts out, gruff. He’s turned the modulator on again.

“Clark Kent will be there,” Superman says, the corners of his mouth barely turned up.

Batman stares at him for a few more breaths, then nods, and shoots out a grappling hook, swinging down and over to the next building, presumably to return to the cave and get prepared for the evening’s festivities.

Hopefully to also take a nap; that’s Clark’s plan, anyway. As he lifts off the roof and begins the trip back to Metropolis, flying far above the clouds to soak in the sunlight, he wonders if a call to Alfred or Barbara will be more useful in ensuring Bruce gets some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: [Bowling Alone by Robert Putnam](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bowling_Alone)
> 
> Also, if you're curious about election interference and infrastructure, especially as it pertains to 2016, check out this [podcast](https://www.lawfareblog.com/lawfare-podcast-nate-persily-and-alex-stamos-securing-american-elections) (if you're into multitasking/audio learner) or the [Stanford report](https://cyber.fsi.stanford.edu/securing-our-cyber-future) (if you're more of a reader). 
> 
> I am by no means a computer coder, so apologies if my research is still significantly off on how Batman and Oracle's preventative methods would look "in action".


	15. Chapter 15

Later that night, Clark touches down on the roof of one of Gotham’s fanciest hotels. He can hear the celebration going on inside down on the first few floors, a sharp contrast to the bitter disappointment going on in the ballroom of the Trump Gotham Hotel. He’d cruised by and ascertained Edge isn’t there. Clark wonders if he’s been tipped off about the article that will come out in _The Daily Planet_ tomorrow and _The Gotham Gazette_ the day after, or if he’s just nursing his wounds about losing both elections in private. He honestly doesn’t care that much. The public will decide Edge’s fate; his only hope is that his reporting is clear enough to convince state election officials and the Attorney General responsible for the state in which Gotham resides to take up investigative procedures. Lois and Perry seem convinced it will, at least.

He takes a moment to rearrange himself; as clumsy as Clark Kent is, he’s never windblown. He shakes his curl into place with the others, smooths down his navy jacket from that store Lois had taken him to before, but paired with a different checked shirt this time, black pants, and no tie. 

He turns a corner on the roof, coming around to the door that will let him in the building and startles a couple stargazing…amongst other things.

“Pardon me,” he stammers, slightly embarrassed. He mimes smoking and hopes they won’t wonder at the lack of tobacco scent in the air. “I didn’t realize anyone else was up here.”

They’re young and laugh and the girl goes back to identifying Andromeda to her partner, both not giving a damn at the interruption. His smile holds a touch of melancholy and his heart aches.

He pushes it aside though as he enters the ballroom where the Garcia supporters are dancing to a song he doesn’t recognize, sung in Spanish. The event looks like a family party despite the additional flair of fancy dresses. The tacos are homemade, not catered, and there’s a woman hugging Garcia about his middle who is crying, but they smell like tears of joy. He suspects it's Garcia’s mother.

The big speech was delivered half an hour earlier and everyone appears relaxed now. It seems most of the press have been ushered out or relieved of their badges and recorders. There’s wine and beer, but someone has smuggled in some tequila and the interns and younger campaign members are doing shots in the corner of the ballroom. They do this heedless of some remaining bigwigs in the ballroom, including Vicki Vale and Bruce who once more has Silver on his arm; the three of them are chatting with the more liberal-minded city councilors. Silver sees him and wriggles her fingers enthusiastically. There’s another gaggle of Gotham elites and celebrities who are having decidedly less fun in the atmosphere and he watches as Garcia disentangles himself from his family and goes over to shake hands and clap them on the back, undoubtedly thanking them for their contributions.

He’s surprised when he turns to the bar and sees a familiar figure grabbing a glass of wine. He wanders over and signals for a glass of water. He slides a ten over for Lena’s glass of wine.

“For the car ride home,” he says, teasing.

“Clark Kent.” She smiles. “It seems wherever Bruce Wayne is these days, there you are.”

He shrugs. “I go where my editor sends me. Tonight, though, I was invited because of the article Garcia already knows about coming out in the morning edition of The Planet.”

She arches one of those finely shaped brows. “Looks like I have some light reading ahead of me. Tell you what, Kent. You ever want a job, you ever find yourself in need of one, you come straight to me. I’ll even double whatever Brucie offers.”

He chuckles. “Very kind, but not tempting in the slightest. I prefer working on behalf of the people than a corporation. I’m lucky that the anonymous owner of The Planet allows Perry free reign and we aren’t beholden to any sort of political agenda – liberal, conservative, religious, etcetera.”

“Hmm, yes. Lucky,” she says, and do her eyes slide over to Bruce?

He’s distracted when she tugs on his hand. “Let’s dance, Clark.”

“I can’t dance,” he finds himself shouting as they get closer to the speakers. She turns back and smiles, somehow stable on those ever-present heels of hers. Her head still only reaches the top of his chest.

“Who cares?” she throws back and begins moving her hips and arms to the beat.

He hadn’t been lying when he told Bruce all he knew was the bunny hop and a few square dance moves from barn parties in Smallville, but he lets the music beat clear in his ears and he moves, awkwardly, but when he breaks out an old disco move just to see Lena laugh, he doesn’t care either, and within a minute, they’re subsumed by the group that had been indulging in the tequila and they’re all equally bad and three songs later, he’s not sure he’s ever had this much fun at a Gotham party.

They eventually break away from the kids who end up having way more stamina than either of them – look, he stopped a bomb on the other side of the country this morning – and end up sitting at a table where Lena places her feet on a chair. She looks at him, a tilt to her head for a moment. Then asks a most unexpected question.

“I don’t suppose you have a sister, Clark?”

He blinks, then shakes his head. “No.”

“Figures,” she sighs. “It’s just, I like you.”

He starts to open his mouth, considering his response, he really doesn’t want to make this uncomfortable, he’s been enjoying her company—

She waves him off before he can get a word out. “I like you,” she says again. “But I’d _like_ you better if you were a girl. Blonde preferably, I have a thing for blondes, but it’s not a deal-breaker. I was hoping you had a sister or a cousin or something.”

He grins, knowing he’s flashing his canines, but unable to stop the unadulterated joy her comment gives him. “Well, I’ll keep it in the back of my mind. I like you, too, Lena.”

“But, I suspect,” she continues, a twinkle to her eye, “you’d like me better if I was a certain _male_ billionaire.”

“It’s not a deal-breaker,” he shrugs, meaning someone’s sex. Still, he glances at Bruce. “But, maybe.”

She pats his hand. “I’m going to National City for the next month. I’ll be back for Wayne’s New Year’s party, though. It’s always a spectacular bash, and a little more intimate than the Gala, though not by much.” She stands, wincing as her body weight settles on her feet. He recognizes the expression from Lois. “I’m sure I’ll see you there,” she continues, that mischievous glint in her eye making them appear a deep emerald.

She leans down to kiss his cheek and then heads for the lobby of the hotel.

Clark finds himself starring off into the distance…at Bruce. He watches the show, the overly charming smile and press of flesh as he greets different people, the higher-pitched laugh he’d heard at the fundraiser, so different from the few real laughs Bruce lets himself have. He’s always got a kind face for Silver, though, keeping his hand in a modest place in the middle of her back, almost brotherly.

At one point, he places a kiss on the top of her head – this time done up in a high ponytail that swings past her butt – and their eyes meet.

The look only lasts fifteen seconds at most, but it sends a jolt of desire coursing through his body and he lets out a tiny gasp as it pools in his groin. He wants to break eye contact, to hide the naked need he knows is reflected on his face, as much as he’s attempting to obtain a Superman-like serenity, but Bruce’s eyes burn into his and won’t let him go.

His name, “Clark,” reaches his ear, subvocalized to the point where Silver wouldn’t understand it, the edges rough, almost…needy. 

He breaks contact, finally, ears burning, feeling antsy, a physical reaction more befitting Flash than Superman. He forces himself to loosen the pressure his nails are exerting in his skin, to not bust the table in front of him on accident, to not run out of the room and into the bathroom and jerk off like a horny teenager.

A gentle hand on his wrist causes him to break out of his reverie. “These billionaires, always the love ‘em and leave ‘em types,” comes a dramatic sigh of a voice.

He turns and sees the man who’d checked to make sure he wasn’t having a gay midlife crisis at that celebrity event back in late July. He’s wearing some kind of flowy kimono and pants set this time, looking like an angel.

“Hello, again,” he says. “Say, I never caught your name last time.” He stands and holds out his hand for a shake.

The other man laughs and takes his hand, making a twirl of it, instead of a handshake. “Jonathan,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes.

The corners of Clark’s lips turn up. He adjusts his glasses as a response to the flirting. “Jonathan, nice to meet you officially. I didn’t realize you lived in Gotham.”

“Heavens no,” the man says, feigning a gag, then winking. “But I’ve known Brucie for the last seven or so years. I’m the one that keeps that gorgeous mane of hair in line. He likes to invite me – and now the boys – to various parties he throws.”

“The boys?” Clark asks.

Jonathan eyes him. “You _are_ a reporter, aren’t you? Clearly you’re not in the entertainment press. I mean, I know you aren’t because I looked you up, but, you have seem to have done a slate of more star-studded related pieces lately. Don’t you ever watch Netflix, hun?”

He shakes his head, picking up his cup from the table. “I don’t have a lot of time for TV, to be honest.”

“Hm, well, carve out a weekend and watch Queer Eye. And if you like it and decide you want to be included, lawd, Tan could make you look stunning. Though I also want to pick through your medicine cabinet and find out about your skincare regiment because your complexion is flawless, honey.”

_Queer Eye_. The women at Harvey’s fundraiser had mentioned it.

“Now, enough about me, dish! I need to know what’s made Brucie stay so far from you most of the night, lingering on that Silver woman rather than your deceptively strong arm.”

Clark smiles into his water. “I think our business is concluded. For now.”

“Queen, do tell! Did he get a piece of all this-“ he waves a hand generously at Clark “-Midwest beefcake? Or did you get your story?”

Clark lets his smile become more a casual smirk, barely noticeable to anyone not directly in front of him as anything other than friendly Clark Kent jovialness. But he casts his eyes over towards Bruce who has thankfully turned back to his group, then back at the man. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“So there was kissing!” he gasps, with a feigned look of excited shock and a press of his hand to his heart. Then he waggles his finger at Clark. “Don’t think I won’t ask him about it the next time he gets his hair cut.” Jonathan squeezes his arm, waving at a diverse group of men who appear to be ready to leave. “I’ll put in a good word for you, too. You never know with Brucie, and I saw the way he looks at you. Bye Clarkie!”

Off the man goes, leaving Clark once more a little bemused in his wake.

He doubts Jonathan’s recommendation would do much good; Bruce tends to set his mind on something and Clark thinks he either decides he will have it, he gets to have it, or he’ll shut himself off forever, until someone else forces his hand. Clark’s glad to know Oracle persisted and by proxy, Dick decided to come back after all this time. He’s taken to flying over to Blüdhaven at least once a week now. Nightwing, as Dick is known in that city, is significantly less territorial than Batman, though no less perceptive, and just gives Superman a wave even when he should be invisible to the naked human eye.

Clark wonders when he’ll tell Bruce about the mini shadow following him around. He wonders if that shadow is part of the impetuous for Dick reaching out to Bruce.

His communicator beeps. He looks down and scrolls through the message from Victor. He takes a final drink of water and happens to look up from his glass right at Bruce across the room. Clark tips his glass, making sure the light catches on his communicator. Bruce gives a sharp nod and then grins, a genuine grin that means _last one there is a rotten egg_ in Bruce’s overly complicated language.

It's _on_.


	16. Chapter 16

Clark walks down the glass and iron steps, keeping his eyes on the back of Bruce’s head. He notices a few more grays have appeared in the last few months, but all it does is make Bruce look more distinguished, even just from the back.

He sees a physical copy of this morning’s _The Daily Planet_ sitting on the desk beside the terminal. The headline reads: _Election Fraud? Superman and Batman Save Mayoral Elections by Disarming Voting Booth Bombs_ with a byline by Clark Kent. It’s the second in a series of three. The third is already printed, waiting for tomorrow’s delivery. There’s a cold cup of tea and a plate with crumbs next to it, like someone spent their breakfast reading it.

Bruce obviously knows he’s there, but he waits until Clark stops behind him, hands in his pockets for the need to do something with them and clears his throat.

Bruce turns his head, spinning his body around in the chair after. He’s got one of his less bulky Batman suits on, cowl sitting on the desk. His face is impassive; his eyes reflect the cave lights.

“You broke up,” he says, and Clark doesn’t know if Barbara called him, if something gives him away, or if they’ve just been building to this moment all along.

“I,” something catches in his throat, wet. It’s still new; it still hurts. But it’s been over for some time and this is right. It’s what he wants and not because the wound is fresh. “Yes.”

He shifts his feet, awkward as any teenager, sliding a hand to the back of his neck as he fails to look Bruce in the eye.

“Are you still bored?” he finally asks, when the silence has become oppressive.

Bruce’s face goes soft, slowly, taking Clark in and Clark feels _known_. Bruce knows his physical strengths and weaknesses, his emotional and mental issues. Bruce knows his mother, knows all about Lois. He knows Clark’s guilt for not saving his father because it is echoed in himself, even if the difference between a seventeen-year-old Clark and a ten-year-old Bruce are nothing to be compared.

Eventually, after what seems like ages, Bruce stands and walks towards him. In a rare move, Bruce places his hands on Clark’s shoulders, a comforting gesture that recognizes everything Clark is feeling right now. Then they slide down his arms, the barest pressure that has lightning trailing after his fingers, until they reach Clark’s hands. Grabbing both his hands, Bruce steps into Clark, twining their fingers together.

Their lips find each other and the kiss is soft, undemanding, but not timid. It’s a promise.

Bruce finally pulls back, looking as dazed as Clark feels. He licks his lips, like he’s chasing Clark’s taste. The lines in his face are relaxed. His eyes are gentle.

“It was never about being bored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *And then Clark has a talk with Bruce about expressing his emotions in healthy ways and directly instead of “in character” and then they have hot sex.*
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (Should there ever be a sequel in this ‘verse, I hope you can guess exactly what Supergirl pairing it would feature. Also, I did not know when I started this, I was going to make Lena and Clark honest to god friends. Just means they’ll be great in-laws.
> 
> I also really like women. And somehow, at no point could I make myself write any woman that appeared in this story in a villainous way. Lois, of course, had to be Lois; determined, smart, and not jealous. She’s either secure or she’s moving on. Keeping her in the story without handwaving her away to make room for Bruce was some of the hardest writing I’ve done but the break up scene was also one of the first I crafted. She loves Clark but she sees potential from the relationship between him and Bruce, and she truly can’t live with being the damsel all the time. Lena, of course, I enjoy too much from Supergirl to write her as Lex’s equally evil sister. It doesn’t mean she’s a saint, but she’s no villain. Finally, I thought at first Silver might be a vapid decoy, but then I found I couldn’t make a more established character a complete bimbo, even with her comics background of occasionally betraying Bruce. So who is to say she hasn’t, sometime in the past, but whatever it was, they’re past it and Bruce and Silver are as much friends as they can be without her knowing his secret.)
> 
>  
> 
> THANK YOU to all who read along as this got posted and left comments. This fic took two months to write and two months to post and I appreciate you every step of the way! I'm going to get to all your comments, now. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Follow and chat with me [on tumblr](http://mf-luder-xf.tumblr.com)!


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